The Shadow Unending
by maximsk
Summary: Skyrim is a different place than it once was. Half a year after Alduin's defeat, wars have been waged, cities have risen and fallen, and the shape of the world has been changed forever. Now Skyrim and its people must survive in a battlefield whose rules have been completely rewritten. Part four of the CoT series.
1. Gelebor 1

**This is a sequel to my Currents of Time stories. I thought I was going to stop at three installments, but I changed my mind. Enjoy!**

Unknown Time

Darkfall Cave

The snow elves were a lost memory for most of Skyrim. All that remained of their legacy was the scourge of the sightless, animalistic creatures that still bore the snow elves' original name—the Falmer. Knight-Paladin Gelebor preferred to call these twisted beings the Betrayed, to distinguish them from the civilized people that they had once been. The people that Gelebor belonged to even now.

He also used the term 'Betrayed' because that was his former brethren's nature, having been subdued and deformed by the Dwemer millennia ago during their hour of darkest need. Gelebor only avoided the same fate because he and his fellow worshipers had been isolated in the remote Chantry of Auri-El, far from the ravages of the war and tragedy visited on the rest of his race.

Now, he wanted nothing more than to see them brought back to some form of peace, but he doubted it would ever come to pass. In fact, it was because of the Betrayed that Gelebor had no more worshipers to spend these years alongside. Not the Nords, whose war with the snow elves had driven them to seek refuge with the Dwemer; not the Dwemer themselves, who were responsible for the sordid state of the Betrayed; but the Betrayed, who stormed the Chantry in overwhelming number, slaughtering all in their path.

To this day, Gelebor did not understand what had compelled them to venture so far out of their way to exact their cruelty. But the result was the same: the Knight-Paladin now resided alone, by the Darkfall wayshrine, the first and most distant in a long series of portals and paths leading to the Chantry's inner sanctum. Perhaps, one day, another snow elf would find this cave, and he would be able to guide them on their journey. Until them, he remained here, sustained by the power of Auriel alone.

There was no keeping track of years. This cave had been his home for longer than he could comprehend. He never ventured far from the low enclosure in which the wayshrine lay dormant. There were predatory creatures elsewhere in here, he knew, but they had never approached him. For his own safety, he had gladly returned the courtesy. He was alone down here, an eternal guardian of Auriel's sovereignty. From time to time, travelers would come in from the surface, seeking the artifact known as Auriel's Bow, but they never proceeded with the task that would be required of them. The way had become too treacherous.

One specific day began like any other. Gelebor would spend his time in meditative prayer, as he always had. There was never anything to disturb him in this cave. Even if the rest of his race had been denied any form of peace, this solitude was something he could have for himself.

The vision came to him suddenly and without warning.

It was difficult to describe what he was seeing. There was a great, overwhelming light, shining from a distant vantage point, far beyond him. It was all-encompassing, and Gelebor knew he could not see its true nature. But it felt more as if he were being seen himself. No being was visible, no voice spoke to him, yet Gelebor recognized instantly what was happening. Auriel was reaching down to him.

The vision of the light shifted and turned, and somehow, Gelebor knew he was looking upon the Aurbis itself. Mundus, the realm of all mortal life, floated in the center, a glimmering orb of living light. Around it was the murky expanse of Oblivion, a nebulous, shifting cloud filled with dark, alien shapes. And around that still were the heavenly vaults of Aetherius, radiant and colorful, a great atlas with wispy tendrils of light floating inward towards the core of Mundus. Like rays of sunlight, these were dimmed and lessened by the clouds of Oblivion, until their ends barely traced over Mundus's surface. The magic of Aetherius, imbuing this world with its energy. Gelebor knew this well.

But then the shapes suddenly changed. In a single, decisive stroke, entire swathes of the clouds of Oblivion were wiped away into nothingness. What remained afterward was only a fraction of what had once been. Some few clouds remained as they were, floating serenely through the Aurbis, but where the others had been, there was only empty space. Gelebor was faintly aware that he had just witnessed the greatest act of destruction ever seen in the span of all Time, yet he could not pass judgment. The Aurbis had simply changed.

Then, another change began to slowly take place. Where Aetherius' tendrils of light had once been reduced to near-nothingness by the haze of Oblivion, they were no longer so obstructed. The few clouds remaining had reformed into a new barrier, but it was too wide, too thin, to stem the new tide. Now, where the tendrils of Aetherial magic touched the core of Mundus, they touched with violent brightness. Radiant, multicolored light burned across what had once been a sedate glow. And then, before more could unfold, the view of the Aurbis shifted away.

Now he looked upon the distant, encompassing light of Auriel once again. And he knew, just as truly, that he was being looked upon as well. In that moment, he realized that this was Auriel's call to him. This was a command, a plea, for action. The Aurbis had changed, and something had to be done, or it would be a change for the worse.

And with that, the vision ended, and Gelebor saw only the walls of Darkfall Cave.

There could have been no greater turning point. In this moment, the endless centuries of isolation, the longing for the old glory of the Great Chantry of Auri-El, all of it fell away. Gelebor was a servant of the sovereign of the snow elves. A vision such as this was completely unheard-of for anyone in his lifetime. And it showed him that his time of quiet guardianship was over.

It was time to leave Darkfall Cave. He would see what the world needed of him now.

There was little preparation to do before leaving. Gelebor simply took a slow look around the cave he was in. Somehow, over the years, he had forgotten that this truly was an unpleasant place to be. The air was cold and dank, the walls cramped and jagged. There was little in the way of light. He would not miss this place.

And so the snow elf fixed his sacred Prelate's Mace to his belt, gave one last glance to the shrine that had kept him company for so long, and set out into the body of Darkfall Cave.

There were creatures here, nearby. Gelebor's footfalls were soft upon the cave earth, but he would certainly be noticed. It was no matter. He simply strode past them all, trolls and spiders and anything in between, giving them not even a flicker of attention. His blessing under Auriel had kept him safe in this cave, and his faith remained in it now. All that he needed to do was to find his way out.

As he walked, he wondered what sort of world would await him outside. The last he had seen of Skyrim, the Nords had been spreading like wildfire, clashing with all in their path, while the Dwemer had been waiting in the shadows for his people to come fleeing to them. From what he had learned from the few travelers to find him in Darkfall Cave, the entire Dwemer race had vanished from existence some centuries ago, and an empire of men had arisen from the central land of Cyrodiil. Beyond that, he knew little. He suspected that he would find a people struggling with great hardship, possibly in the form of yet more war. Perhaps he could be of some sort of aid as he searched for the meaning of Auriel's mission for him.

The mouth of the cave was not hard to find. All Gelebor had to do, essentially, was to keep on the uphill route. After a mere few minutes of walking, he turned a corner and found that the next passage was lit up by the sun. This gave him a sudden moment of pause. He had not seen sunlight in a long, long time.

At this point, Gelebor stopped to take a deep breath in. He could smell the fresh air, he thought. Air that wasn't stale and wet. It was pleasantly cool. He smiled to himself slightly, then continued walking up to the mouth of the cave, looking up into the light to let his eyes adjust. He wanted to enjoy this first sight.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. Auriel's vision had been less of a shock.

Outside the mouth of the cave was an endless expanse of gray and black. Lifeless, and silent. Everything, for as far as he could see, had been burned to ash. Shrubs and trees had been reduced to blackened stumps. Rolling hills that might have once been covered in verdant grass under the shining sun were now burnt beyond recognition. The only sound was the desolate noise of a cold breeze in the air. This was beyond the destruction wrought by a natural fire. Someone had burned this land deliberately.

This land. The land he now returned to. Even the Betrayed had never been this ambitious in their desire to destroy.

Gelebor walked forward in a meandering daze. The ground crumbled beneath his feet with every step. He could scarcely believe that what he was witnessing was truly real. And yet it was, and his duty to Auriel demanded that he accept this. This was the world he had to work in now.

He hoped that at least this burnt swathe of land wasn't larger than what he saw. There had to still be some sort of world out there for him to protect. For lack of anything else to do, Gelebor found a traversable path through the ash, and began marching out in search of something new.

The burnt swathe of land was far, far larger than what he had seen. Two days of travel passed as he wandered through the dead wastes. On the first day, only some hours after he had left the cave, he found the only sign of settlement that he had seen thus far. It looked as though it had been a small village, once, ringed with a wooden palisade wall. The wall had been reduced to rows of dull black stubs on the ground. The buildings, where they had been, were piles of ashen rubble. Utterly unidentifiable. They must have burned with furious heat to be so reduced.

Gelebor could not bring himself to go within what had been the village's walls. But even from here, he could see that this place had not been abandoned. There were …. skeletons, strewn about the ground, between the buildings. More than a dozen of them. They were so completely burnt that their remains seemed fused to the earth.

He could not look for long. He had to continue walking.

But that was the first day. The sun set, and he rested; the sun rose, and he traversed an endless path along silent hills and cliffsides, all as burnt as he had seen already; the sun set, and he rested once again. Only on the morning of the third day of travel did he finally find something new.

What he found was a river. He first saw it from atop a low, broad cliff, looking down upon the water from above. The water was clear and shining in the morning sunlight, rushing audibly over the rough stones of the riverbank. Finally, something besides the ash. He had not known what to think, walking for so long through so much lifeless land. The only thought that had kept him moving was the ever-present memory of Auriel's vision. He was here for a purpose. It simply had to be true.

But now he looked down upon the rushing waters below, and he knew that he had found something of note. The cliff was too high for him to reach the water from here, so he descended by its gentler landward slope, and circled around by a wide berth. He simply desired to see this river more closely. After these past two days, Gelebor felt he needed the change of scenery.

His eventual path towards the river took him over a shallow hill, much lower than the cliff before. He could hear the sound of the water from quite the distance away. As he approached, he realized he was hearing more than the water this time. There was another, higher noise. A strange, droning chime, one that sent a foreboding chill through Gelebor's chest. There was nothing to do but come closer.

As he crested the hill, Gelebor realized that the sound belonged to a nirnroot. A single herb, growing somehow on the riverbank, amid all the death that had swallowed this land. It was bathed in a brilliant halo of pale light, much colder in hue than he remembered. But it was unmistakable, and so extraordinary that he stopped in his tracks and simply stared.

What made it so extraordinary wasn't merely its location—it was its size. This one nirnroot stood as tall as his chest. It had the same cluster of branching leaves with the same cut-away edges, like an ordinary nirnroot would, but it was ten times larger than it ought to have been. Gelebor had never seen, heard, or read of anything like this before in his life.

He did not know where he would find them yet, but one thing was abundantly clear—he needed answers.


	2. Zaryth 1

**The character Zaryth is an OC, and belongs to (and is being used with the permission of) the fanfic author countess z. This is one big guest appearance. The story in which Zaryth originally appeared is titled Accidental Disciples, and is about the events of Morrowind. Fortunately, the Dunmer have long lifespans.**

Middas, 6:19 AM, 6th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Saarthal Excavation Site

Zaryth pulled open the iron doors of Saarthal and stepped out into the cold. She couldn't even begin to fathom her frustration. There was no point in denying it—she only had herself to blame for this.

It'd been eighty years since the Dunmer mage had been in Skyrim last. Eighty years, which she'd spent exploring the arid mysteries of Hammerfell, and then briefly traveling through the Imperial hub of Cyrodiil. All in all, a fruitful endeavor, though perhaps a bit more troubled than she would like. As she came through Cyrodiil, she'd been hearing a great deal of nonsense from passing travelers about a second war with that vile Altmer cabal they called the Thalmor. Strange business. She hadn't been sure that the first one had ended yet.

She'd been looking forward to resuming her relationship with the College of Winterhold. She had studied there, once, or at least tried to. Her years of apprenticeship had come and gone long before she had ever set foot in Skyrim. The relationship was more of a comfortable, on-and-off matter of running experiments and authoring books for the Arcanaeum.

So naturally, the College had been her very first destination. It was, admittedly, rather disheartening. The only familiar face was her old colleague Drevis Neloren, now the College's master of illusion. She'd had plenty of discoveries to share with him, but in return, Drevis had offered little besides news. Mostly some inane drivel about the province's politics. Apparently, something bad had happened in the Reach, which mattered none to Zaryth. She didn't even like it there.

Really, the only interesting news was that someone had finally discovered FalZhardum Din. Contemporarily known as Blackreach, it had turned out to be a cavern network linking together the Dwemer cities of Alftand, Mzinchaleft and Raldbthar. Zaryth, as it happened, was—and had always been, ever since her days in Morrowind—an avid scholar of the deep elves. Nearly all the books she had published were about them in some manner or another. Blackreach's existence confirmed some of the oldest hypotheses she had heard (and posited herself) about the nature of the Dwemer cities in Skyrim, how they may have been physically interconnected by some undiscovered means, and how this would have influenced their relations with one another. Truly fascinating, all of it.

But compared to their counterparts in Morrowind, this province's Dwemer ruins were unfeasibly dangerous to study. Traps, automatons, Falmer—according to the College of Winterhold's statistics, more mages in Skyrim perished attempting to reap the bounties of the Dwemer than in all other archaeological sites combined. Most of Zaryth's authored literature regarding the sites themselves was simply to detail how lethal they were. So while Alftand was only several days' travel from Winterhold, Zaryth decided it would be wiser to explore something else, at least while she formulated a plan to work her way through Alftand's interior. There was nothing that couldn't be conquered by the right application of illusion magic.

Still, in the meantime, she was directing her focus elsewhere. And as long as she was in this corner of Skyrim, Saarthal seemed like a good choice. It was nearly on Winterhold's doorstep, but local politics had always kept the College from examining it in detail. Even over a century prior, they had been taking half-hearted stabs at the ancient Nord city's underground ruins, but no one had ever exhaustively searched the place. Drevis mentioned that someone had found a mysterious orb there just the year prior, and the Psijics had come in and snatched it away. How boring. She was sure she could do better.

And so Zaryth had located the College's excavation site over Saarthal's ruins—not difficult to find, it was a gaping pit filled with wooden scaffolding and platforms, she wondered whom they'd reanimated to do the digging for them—and taken a look for herself.

The ruin had obviously been cleared out, complete with burnt draugr corpses everywhere, much to Zaryth's displeasure. Draugr were always so intriguing to study. Their behavioral patterns were nothing like those of the undead reanimated by necromancy spells, and obviously they functioned using a single source of magical energy but the source's nature was a complete mystery even today. It was a disappointment that none had been left in their unliving state in Saarthal, since Zaryth would have gladly taken the time to study them. But she was not so easily deterred, and she had remained confident that there would be more to find here. All she had needed to do was to keep searching, and that was a practice she had down to an art.

She had begun her search thirty-six hours ago.

Thirty-six hours. Minus a couple hours for sleep at one point, that was how long she had spent looking for something to study in this one ruin. She'd searched every room, every hallway, every dank and musty nook and cranny, looking for locked doors, loaded traps, intact seals—and when that failed to yield results, she'd switched to looking for magical auras, hollow walls, anything that would be invisible on the first pass—and when that failed also, she resorted to systematically examining every artifact, every single surface in Saarthal for anything that would tell her something new. Nothing. Just stone walls and old tools and ruined draugr bodies.

There was only one conclusion to make. The College of Winterhold had already cleared this site completely. They'd searched it from top to bottom, just as she had, and they'd come away with everything of note. And it was her fault for coming here when they'd obviously extracted the most valuable discovery months prior. There was nothing to do but swallow her frustration, leave this place and find someplace else to study.

It was in this state of mind that Zaryth pulled open Saarthal's iron doors and stepped out into the open once more. It was a dark, cloudy morning, and the freezing wind carried gusts of snow every which way, a tumultuous fog of bone-chilling air that promised hours of unpleasant travel ahead. Zaryth was no stranger to the biting cold of Skyrim's northern holds, but she was a Dunmer, not a Nord. She wasn't built for this. And so for lack of a better option, she simply bunched her cloak around her front and began walking towards the wooden stairways up to the surface. Alftand was sure to be a welcome change of pace, she imagined.

And yet she had not made it ten paces before she heard a voice over the noise of the rushing wind. An Altmer voice, she could immediately tell. The snobbish accent was unmistakable. It called out from somewhere above her, "Get that rope down here! We'll be doing quite the hauling."

Zaryth walked out into the middle of the excavation pit to get a better view, squinting into the wind—she was growing tired of today's wind patterns very quickly. On one of the platforms above her, a figure in College robes was facing away from her, arms raised, looking up at the ledge above. Sure enough, a coil of rope came falling down from the surface above, landing in the mage's hands. What kind of mages were these, that they needed _rope_ to handle their tasks? For that matter, who were they to begin with? Evidently no one very savvy about ancient ruins.

Another figure appeared over the lip of the excavation pit, from where the rope had come. Another person in College robes. This one pointed at her and called out, in that same insufferable accent, "Just a moment, who's _that?_ "

' _That'?_ Zaryth was a ' _that'_ now? The nerve! She gritted her teeth and gave the two Altmer a glare even icier than the wind in her face. "If you're here to plunder the riches of Saarthal, you're wasting your time," she called out. "This whole site is empty."

The elf at the edge of the pit jumped down onto the wooden platform, and the two of them started to descend the stairs to the bottom of the digging site. On a quiet, unspoken level, Zaryth didn't like how these elves were making a show of descending to her level. They had no idea what kind of mage they were talking to. By the looks of their robes, she surmised they were former College apprentices, probably who had left (or been expelled) before finishing their training. Now they were looking around for ancient ruins to snatch anything of value from. It was this sort of mage that gave the entire magic community a bad name.

As the pair reached the bottom of the stairs, the first elf came around to the second's left, and said to Zaryth, "I'm so sorry, we haven't exchanged names. What did you say yours was?"

Zaryth was appreciating these two's attitudes less and less. She decided not to engage them as they wanted. All she cared for herself was to get out of this pit and resume her travels, but she was starting to desire to give these glorified scavengers a lesson in etiquette. "My name should not be important to you," she said primly, "though I daresay little is important to you besides the chance of finding some sort of _loot_ in this city's remains. Still, if you wish to enter the ruins, be my guest. I found nothing of value, and neither will you."

The two elves looked at one another, then shrugged. The first one spoke up again, "Very well, we can skip the formality of names. But what are _you_ doing here? Searching these ruins top to bottom, then spitting on us for looking for arcane mysteries?"

"My pursuits here are entirely scholarly," Zaryth scowled. "Quite unlike yourselves, by the look of it. Perhaps if you took more time to learn about the artifacts you intend to abscond with, you would understand the importance of such knowledge."

The second elf laughed out loud. It was such an irritating laugh. "What are you, some sort of bookworm magician?"

Zaryth couldn't even react to the audacity of that remark, because the first elf nudged the second with his elbow and said, "Well, maybe she knows about the centurion… uh…"

Centurion? That was distinctly Dwemer terminology. If these two had been raiding Dwemer ruins, Zaryth would have no limit of fury for the both of them. She spoke very slowly and carefully. "What is it that I might know about, exactly?"

The second elf shrugged indifferently. "Oh, we found a, uh… Some sort of dwarven machinery, we found a piece of it. I was planning on taking it home, but here. It's this." And with that, he reached into his haversack and pulled out a device of golden metal and green-blue glass.

She recognized it instantly. It was a fine-tune focusing lens for a Dwemer oculory. Useless without knowing where it belonged, but likely part of a machine capable of translating otherwise incomprehensible magic into easily readable form. Very few such machines existed anywhere in Tamriel. These mages obviously had no idea what they had stumbled upon.

And they were going to just walk off with it. She tried to hold in a gasp.

Strangely, the two elves proceeded to look at each other, then back at her. "Hello, Zaryth," the second elf said, before smirking and tossing the focusing lens aside.

Few in Skyrim would understand the significance of Zaryth's history in Morrowind. But by her original apprenticeship, she was a Telvanni mage, and had been ever since. One lesson she had learned during her time at Tel Fyr was that a mage's survival often hinged not only upon arcane talent, but also quick reflexes.

She had just enough time to throw on a mage armor spell before the first lightning bolt hit her in the chest.

The stinging pain of the jolt took a moment to really understand. By the time she did, she'd already cast an invisibility spell, and was ducking to the side as more lightning shot through the air where she'd just been. These mages were _attacking_ her. How idiotic could they possibly be? Did they even know who she was?

A split second later, as the Dunmer reoriented herself to face her assailants, she realized that the answer was yes. That second elf had just addressed her by name. That meant that they knew who she was, and at least some of what she was capable of. And they were attacking her, without provocation. With lightning spells, whose defining trait was that they depleted the target's magicka just as it injured them. They hadn't come here for the treasures of Saarthal. They had come here to kill a Telvanni mage.

Woe to them, she thought. They were deep in over their heads.

Confronted with an invisible attacker, the standard response from most mages would be to sweep the area with low-intensity destruction magic. Even the lightest graze of injury was enough to break the invisibility effect. Zaryth expected this. She cast a muffle spell to mute the noise of her movement, keeping her eyes on the two mages' hands. They were putting mage armor of their own. And once that was on, they began preparing to dual-cast some more shock magic, it looked like. As though she'd wait for that.

Zaryth made a running charge forwards, and threw herself to the ground just before reaching the elves' feet. She hit the ice-covered stone on her front in complete silence, and the moment she did, four streams of sparks lashed out above her. She could hear them sweeping through the air, crossing paths with each other, systematically searching her out. They found nothing.

The sparks stopped abruptly. Zaryth looked up to see the two elves nod to one another, and then they were both shrouding themselves in crackling auras of the same sort of sparks. Lightning cloaks. How annoying. Now they could reveal her just by stepping too close. And they were starting to walk forwards. Right towards where she lay on the ground.

There was no time to think. She rolled to the right, up onto her knees and elbows, summoning a bound dagger in her hand on the way. The first elf's path was taking him straight up by her. She felt the prickling energy of the lightning cloak starting to connect with her, and suddenly she was plainly visible, right there on the ground. It was at that moment that she lunged.

Her spectral blade hit the elf in the back of the ankle. She felt the resistance of the armor spell, but it wasn't nearly enough to stop her strike. Just as she planned, her blade cut straight through the tendon. The elf cried out and instantly fell hard on his back. His colleague turned around, some shock spell at the ready, but Zaryth was already retreating and casting invisibility once more. The lightning bolt struck the ground to her right. A sad miss.

The first elf was grunting in pain, drawing in his injured leg involuntarily, but more importantly, preparing a healing spell. That wouldn't do at all. Yet his cloak was still crackling away. Zaryth didn't want to get too close. Her arm was tingling uncomfortably from the lunging strike.

And so she dismissed the dagger, summoned a bound battleaxe, and reappeared by bringing it down onto the elf's throat. He'd just been starting his healing spell, too. The axe blade clove through his neck all the way down to the bone. It was terribly messy. His cloak and mage armor spells dissipated in a sudden flash. Zaryth wasn't much for heavy-hitting melee, but she did have to admit—that felt good.

But still, now she was visible once more, and the second elf still remained. She dismissed the battleaxe as well, putting up a ward with one hand and healing herself with the other. Another lightning bolt glanced harmlessly against the shimmering magical shield. Restoration magic wasn't Zaryth's strong point, but it most certainly had its place.

Now the fight was one versus one. Zaryth knew she could outmaneuver this Altmer upstart with no trouble. She wasn't in a hurry. The two of them circled slowly around one another, moving away from the first elf's body, back towards the doors to Saarthal's depths. This second elf wasn't even _trying_ to cast anything. He was just walking. As though his partner-in-crime hadn't just had his throat cloven open.

No matter. Zaryth could handle this easily enough. Once her healing spell was done, she readied another invisibility spell, ward still raised. She still had plenty of magicka left. The elf didn't even react. The Dunmer couldn't help but smirk a little. If all assassins were this uncaring—

Sharp, stabbing pain exploded through her leg. She screamed aloud, her spells falling away as she looked down at herself. An arrow was buried deep in the back of her left calf. She could see the feathers on the end. It was stuck in her leg. She could barely breathe. It hurt so much.

She fell down onto her injured leg's knee, gripping her thigh with both hands, trying to make it cooperate. There was a sickening, deadening heat spreading through her leg. Spreading through her whole body, her whole mind. Zaryth couldn't tell what it was. She was under attack. Another assailant. A third elf? She hadn't seen that coming. They were going to kill her if she didn't respond. She raised her hand to cast another healing spell.

Nothing happened. The spell wouldn't appear.

That was what she was feeling, she realized. That deadened feeling all through her. Her magicka was gone. It wasn't replenishing. The arrow had been poisoned. They'd deliberately hit her in the leg, with a poisoned arrow. And in an instant, she had lost all ability to fight back.

Zaryth screamed again. This time, it wasn't out of pain.

The second elf was walking up to her. She could hear the footsteps. Tears were streaming down her face. She tried to blink them away, and looked up at the elf. He was smiling cruelly at her, and pulling a dagger from beneath his robes. An ornate, green glass dagger. That blade was going to pierce her body in a matter of seconds, and there was nothing she could do about it.

"So," the elf said, as he grabbed Zaryth's robes by the collar. He brought his dagger up beneath her chin, pricking into it painfully, forcing her to look up at him. "Any last words?"

Last words? Zaryth was being asked for her last words? This shouldn't have been possible… And yet it was very, very real. She was about to die. This wasn't fair. They were just destroying her, somehow, in an instant.

No words came out of her mouth. She barely managed to hold in a choking sob.

The elf shook his head, still smiling. "All that knowledge, and you don't even know how to face your own death."

There was a sharp, wet noise. The elf dropped his weapon, let go of Zaryth's robes. Something dark had just come straight out through his chest. A moment later, Zaryth realized she was looking at the end of a blade. The elf's mage armor dissipated, and he fell to his knees, staring lifelessly into his would-be victim's eyes, before he collapsed.

An armored boot planted on the elf's robed back as the sword was wrenched free. Zaryth looked up slowly at its wearer. Her heart was pounding, her head was swimming. She couldn't believe her eyes.

This didn't look like a person. She was looking at a truly terrible figure of stark, angular black and gold armor. There was no face she could see beneath the slit of its visor. The only identity to this being was a round, golden icon in relief on its dark breastplate. It looked like the shape of a gear.

As her eyes focused more on the figure, she realized that, no, there was more identity than that. On each shoulder plate, there were numbers. Golden, blocky numbers, reading _29_ _· 1_.

Zaryth heard a voice speaking, but it was so far away. She couldn't make it out. Everything was very hard to take in. She couldn't focus. She couldn't focus…

A hand was shaking Zaryth's shoulder. She opened her eyes. She couldn't see anything properly. Her ears were ringing uncomfortably.

Someone, a man, was asking her, "Can you hear me?"

She managed to make a noise of assent. Her vision was slowly sharpening. She was on her back, still outdoors, beneath the wood platforms. The pain in her leg was gone. She had her magicka back. But before she could think of any spells to cast, the armored terror returned. The black-and-gold visor, looking down impassively at her. She realized now, looking at it in more detail, that the armor was made of dwarven metal, clad in an outer plating of ebony. Perhaps some sort of animated construction, like an automaton? It faintly reminded her of what she knew of the great Anumidium. Not an inch of skin or cloth was showing on this figure. Nothing but metal.

The words came from her mouth unbidden. "What _are_ you?"

"I'm a Nord," the voice said. The voice was coming from inside the armor. Was this actually a person? The armor was _shaped_ like a person, at least. The voice cleared its throat and continued talking. "You lost a lot of blood from that arrow. I managed to remove it from you and administer a healing potion."

"… What?"

The armored figure, the person in armor, held up an arrow in front of Zaryth's face. Its first third was covered in dried blood. Something was unusual about the arrowhead, but she couldn't tell quite what. "Poison," the man growled. "They've copied our arrow design. You were hit with a massive dose of it, whatever it was."

The memory of that awful, deadened feeling suddenly surged back into focus. Zaryth felt herself shudder. "It took away my magicka," she breathed.

"Makes sense." The armored man nodded slowly, setting the arrow aside. "You were doing quite the spellcasting. Here, can you move? Let me help you up."

And then there was an armored glove in front of her. The man—if this was really a man—was kneeling over her. Holding his hand out for her to take. Zaryth still wasn't entirely sure what was going on, so she took hold of it with the utmost caution. The metal was cold even through her gloves. But he pulled her up to a seated posture, and then, more slowly, to her feet.

Standing in front of the armored man, Zaryth observed that he was a fair bit taller than her, but that was hardly news. Many people were taller than Zaryth—for her race, her stature was somewhat less than the usual. It also occurred to her, standing like this, that her leg was in no pain whatsoever. She was standing perfectly strong on both feet. Another thought occurred to her in kind:

"The one who hit me with that arrow—"

"She's dead," the man cut her off. "I took care of her before jumping down into this pit. They must have really wanted you dead, to pursue you for so long."

"Wait, stop." Zaryth held up her hands. She gave the armored man another look over. The numbers _29_ _· 1_ were on more parts of him than the shoulders. On his wrists, his sides, probably more places on his back. This was clearly the man's identification. What kind of group would identify people by _numbers?_ That was supposed to be for slaves and prisoners. And yet this man was clearly acting by his own agency, with no one else in sight. She had a thousand questions for him. Yet in the end, she only put forth two. "Who are you, and who were they?"

In response, the man reached up and pulled his helmet off. This was most certainly a Nord. An older, rugged-looking but comely sort, with neck-length gray hair tied back from the front, and a short, unstyled beard. He was looking at her carefully. And the rest of his body was still covered in black and gold armor numbered _29_ _· 1_.

"My name is Thorald Gray-Mane," the man said. "I'm a soldier in the Dragonborn's army, the Black Machine." He swallowed and creased his brow somewhat. Zaryth realized that he looked concerned. What did _he_ have to be worried about? "I was trailing those elves there for a few days. We knew they were taking orders from the Thalmor, but we didn't know what for. … Now we do."

The Dragonborn. Drevis might have mentioned that name, back in the College. No matter. Zaryth was more unsettled by the mention of the Thalmor. "That doesn't make sense, those looked like College mages," she said, perhaps too unsteadily. She realized, suddenly, that this Nord's concerned look was about _her_.

"College mages don't have copies of the Black Machine's poison arrows," he replied, shaking his head slowly. "The Thalmor just tried to assassinate you. I imagine you're better-equipped than I to guess why."

Zaryth shrugged indifferently. She wasn't going to let this get under her skin. So some elves had made an attempt on her life, and some sort of elite Nord soldier had stepped in. She could grasp that. "Zaryth Velani," she said. "You may have heard of me."

Likely not, really, going by what she had seen in the past of Nord soldiers. They cared little for the arcane arts and its practitioners. It would have been overly generous to assume that this Thorald fellow even knew the name of the Arch-Mage of his own College of Winterhold, let alone the name of a mage from another province.

The Nord frowned and inclined his head somewhat. "Ahh, no." Predictable. "But the Thalmor obviously did. What were they doing with that oculory lens?"

Zaryth opened her mouth silently. That… That was unanticipated. Evidently, this Nord had been spending his time doing more than drinking mead and cracking skulls. She took a breath in, then tried again with replying to that. "It's interesting you mention that, because the existence of that lens obviously implies the existence of a functional oculory in one of the Dwemer ruins, and the ruins in Skyrim are far better-preserved than those in other provinces, so who knows what they would be capable of? Besides some non-representative examples in Hammerfell, there are so few working models of oculories in Tamriel, though I can understand why you Nords wouldn't want to look into such a scholarly opportunity—"

"Of course there's an oculory in Skyrim," the Nord said flatly. "There are two. One in the Tower of Mzark in Hjaalmarch, which is designed to read Elder Scrolls safely, and one above Mzulft in Eastmarch, which is designed to locate powerful magical auras. I suppose this lens probably came from Mzulft. I hear that place is a mess."

Zaryth paused. That was all actually rather worth writing down. She hadn't even heard of a Tower of Mzark before, and if it indeed was a real Dwemer ruin, _that_ was saying something.

The pause went on in silence. She didn't know entirely what to say, now. This required much more thought.

She was sure this Nord—Thorald, he was called—hadn't researched all of this himself. He must have received the information from some other source. Perhaps the Dragonborn? Whomever he was taking orders from. Someone who actually understood the Dwemer material being discussed. And there was only one recently-discovered Dwemer location in Skyrim. The rest of the pieces fit together very nicely.

Eventually, she folded her arms and gave Thorald a knowing smile. "You're from Blackreach, aren't you?"

"Well… Yes," Thorald replied blankly. "I was going to invite you to come back with me, if you're not doing anything else. You're very well-read about Dwemer archaeology, it seems, we could use… someone of your…" He stared off into space for a moment, then refocused on Zaryth. "Well, now we know why they wanted you dead. They were afraid you would come to Blackreach and contribute to our war effort. Funny, while I was following them, they were following you."

What a petty thing to want to kill someone for. Zaryth couldn't believe that the Thalmor had approached her that way. On the other hand, it was true that she had already been planning on exploring the ruin in question. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, the city of Alftand was only a couple of days' travel away from where she stood. Still, this was worth replying to. She took a deep breath in.

"Blackreach would certainly pose an unprecedented source of research on Dwemer devices. You wouldn't be aware of this, seeing as your knowledge is limited to a brief sliver of experience, but I've published more books than most Nords have read in their lives, and the vast majority were about the Dwemer."

Thorald cleared his throat again. Zaryth continued.

"Presumably, the Thalmor learned about me simply by reading some of them, which I congratulate them on doing, though I would have preferred a less violent form of peer review. Doubtlessly, the contents of such a vast ruin as Blackreach would potentially form the basis for an entire lifetime of study. Besides some oblique references to the name FalZhardum Din, you realize, there was simply no knowledge of Blackreach at all! It's incredible that a ruin of such size would go completely unknown for so long. To be at the forefront of this research would mean a chance to unlock secrets whose nature isn't even dreamed of by even the brightest minds of our time. It would be a tremendous opportunity, without a doubt."

"So…" Thorald shifted onto one foot. "What you're saying is, you'll come with me?"

"I don't see why not," Zaryth shrugged. "I presume we will be entering through Alftand?"

"That's right. We'd better get moving, if we're going to go. I'd rather not wait to see if the Thalmor have any more friends coming." And with that, Thorald raised his helmet and fitted it on over his head once more. He was back to looking like an Anumidium-styled nightmare. Zaryth was glad she'd been able to see his face first, so she knew what to imagine beneath that visor.

"Wait." The Dunmer held up a finger. "One more thing." And with that, she took off at a striding pace around the perimeter of the pit's bottom level, until she found the oculory lens that that elf had carelessly tossed aside. It fit nicely in her hand, but she put it in her pack for safekeeping.

Strictly speaking, in the end, she _had_ gotten something worth studying from the Saarthal excavation site.


	3. Ria 1

Loredas, 7:43 PM, 9th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Jorrvaskr

Ria stared silently into her mug of mead, as she'd been doing for the past ten minutes. She wanted to enjoy this. The life of a Companion was supposed to be a full and bright one. But all she could think of were the people she couldn't share her adventures with anymore.

She wasn't alone in the mead hall. A few others were sitting at the tables around the hearth. Vignar Gray-Mane was leaning against the far wall, tankard in hand. But they were all quiet. No one even knew what to say, these days.

The city of Whiterun had changed.

Two months ago, the greatest concern on anyone's minds had been the looming war with the Thalmor. Four months before that, people had still been worried about the dragons. Certainly, at least, the Thalmor were still a serious threat. But it wasn't the same now.

The day everything had changed was the 29th of First Seed. A day that many had taken to calling the Battle over Whiterun. That was a careful wording. The only participants had been the dragons, doing battle with one another. Not a single inhabitant of the city had been there to take part in the fight.

It was true, abandoning the city did leave it defenseless. But against so many dragons at once, they were defenseless anyway. When the portals had started opening throughout the streets, Ria and the others had had little choice but to jump on in. And sure enough, it'd saved them all.

And when they jumped out an instant later, a couple weeks had passed, and the battle was long over. With no one in the city to attack, the dragons had completely ignored it. Who would've expected that a Daedric Prince would have come to Whiterun's rescue? It was strange beyond belief. But if that had been the only thing to happen on the 29th, they'd probably be laughing about it right now.

The problem was that the Circle, the Companions' elite members, hadn't been _in_ Whiterun for the battle. Harbinger Vilkas, his brother Farkas, Aela the Huntress, their Thieves Guild guest Brynjolf—they'd all been in the middle of riding back from the Reach.

One of the Dragonborn's own associates had brought them the news. The news that confirmed why that return trip had been taking so long. Someone had found their burnt remains outside the Western Watchtower. The entire Circle had been brought down in one day. Jorrvaskr was headless. And Ria didn't feel like finishing her mead.

At the very least, she took comfort in the fact that they were all in Sovngarde now. She liked to imagine that Brynjolf was really spicing up all the old warriors' afterlives.

There were about forty of them left, around here. Maybe a quarter of them were actually in the hall right now. Usually, it was more like half, with the remaining half being out on jobs. But even though the Circle wasn't here to hand out new jobs anymore, there weren't many of them in the hall. Some were downstairs. A lot of them were outside. Nowhere in particular, just… elsewhere in the city. Ria couldn't blame them. Jorrvaskr wasn't a happy place right now.

Sitting next to her now was Njada Stonearm. One of the veterans of the Companions, at least compared to Ria herself. They'd never spoken very much. Njada had never chosen her for a Shield-Sister. Yet here they were.

"Vilkas would've known what to do about this," Njada grumbled, in response to nothing in particular.

Athis, the hall's resident dark elf, looked up at her sharply. He was sitting a few seats around the corner. So many of these seats were empty. "Is that a compliment? For our late Harbinger? You never give those to anyone."

Njada shook her head slowly. "He'd still have a better idea than us."

It was so quiet in here. The hearth crackled away as always, filling the room with its warmth, but no one seemed to feel it. For good reason.

The dark elf just shrugged. "He'd have some jobs for us, probably. He'd be off handling the big things."

"Well, hold on. What are the big things?" Njada was starting to sit up in her seat. Ria didn't like the look of this. "Too big for us, do you mean?"

"Let's be realistic, Njada, we're going to get ourselves killed if we do as the Circle did. Fighting the Thalmor. What did they even think would come of that?"

"And I suppose _you'd_ rather have us—all right. Show of hands. Who wants to keep fighting sabre cats and clearing out bandit camps?"

Nobody responded. They were all sitting perfectly still. Ria was back to looking quietly at her mead.

Njada went on. "We can't just sit around and act like the world isn't changing. It is. We have to do something."

"And what would you have us do, oh great Stonearm? Take part in a war? You and I both know that that's not the way of the Companions. We don't take sides in politics."

"Oh, please. You've heard what happened to the Reach. This isn't about politics, it's about _survival._ "

The Reach. Once, thanks to the savagery of the Forsworn, it'd been the most dangerous hold in Skyrim. Now, thanks to the Thalmor, it wasn't even a hold. Ria had only heard the same stories as everyone else. But going by the stories, they'd have to redraw the maps after this. It was like their very own little Morrowind.

But Athis wasn't having any of that. "Survival, is it? Well, if you're so keen on surviving—gods, what a low thing for a Companion to yearn for. Survivors don't go to Sovngarde."

Njada scoffed. "And you think a dark elf like you will?"

Athis shot to his feet. His chair skidded out behind him. He laid his hands on the edge of the table, leering menacingly down at Njada. "Say that again," he growled. "Say it."

"You don't _get_ to talk about these things," Njada spat, slowly rising to a stand as well. Everyone else was dead silent. There wasn't even anything to say. These two had always fought, but… Not like this.

Ria very quietly got up from her seat and backed away slowly. She didn't want to be in the middle of this. In fact, she didn't want to be here at all, right now. This felt unreal.

"Say it, Njada. Come on. Be a true Nord for me." Athis was circling around the corner of the table now. " _Say it._ "

Njada took a slow couple steps up to Athis. The two of them were standing uncomfortably close. She snorted dismissively. "What, you think you're gonna scare me? You? You can't even swing a sword."

Athis' lip twitched in the start of a snarl. "I can't? You _won't_. You just want to _survive_. Who's the Nord here? You're just like the Empire, bending over for the Thalmor—"

Njada's voice jumped an octave. " _That's_ it!—"

She raised her hand to strike Athis, but the elf was ready. He put his whole body into it. His waist turned, his arm came up, and his elbow cracked hard into Njada's chin. She staggered back onto one knee, holding one hand on the back of the nearest chair, and holding the other to her face.

"You son of a bitch," she growled, her words slurring together from the strike. "You s—"

Athis moved forward, winding his foot up for a kick, but Njada suddenly pulled the chair in the way, and drove the wooden edge of the seat into the elf's shin. The noise was sickening. Athis shouted and recoiled in pain, then grabbed the chair and flung it aside. He was going to try again, Ria just knew it.

Then Njada reached to her belt, and pulled forth her sword. The steel glittered horribly in the light of the hearth. She had murder in her eyes.

They were going to kill each other. Right here and now, in the middle of Jorrvaskr. This was how bad things had become. And Ria was standing here and watching, just like everyone else.

She didn't even feel any control over her movements. She just felt herself jumping in between Athis and Njada, and shouting, " _STOP!_ "

To her surprise, they actually stopped. Njada even lowered her sword. She looked extremely conflicted.

So Ria just kept going. "What in _Oblivion_ are you two doing?! This is lunacy!" She pointed at Njada's sword. "Put that away, now!"

Njada took a sharp breath in. "Listen, whelp—"

"No, you listen! Look at yourself!" Ria realized that tears were coming from her eyes. She didn't care. "Is this what the Companions are? Is this—is this what I joined? We can't just _kill_ each other!"

Athis seemed to have calmed down a little. He'd backed away a bit. "Please, Ria," he said slowly. "You're putting yourself in danger right now."

He gave Njada a meaningful look, past Ria's shoulder. Actually, that look was at Njada's blade.

"All right. You know what? Fine." Njada tightened her lips and took a breath in… and put her sword back in its sheath.

Ria breathed a silent sigh of relief. Then, more audibly, she sniffed a bit, and wiped at her eyes. This still felt unreal.

"I… I think we should all take a minute," she said, shakily. "Before we keep talking. All right?"

Athis shrugged. "Anyone else want to weigh in on this? Vignar? Anyone?"

"Don't bring me into this squabble," Vignar muttered loudly from where he was. Classic Vignar. Supposedly, he'd been a Companion once, and a legionnaire before that. Now, not so much.

A little bit of time passed by in silence. Ria walked over and put the chair back where it'd been at the table, then leaned her hands on top of it and just looked into the hearth. Everyone was still quiet. She realized that they were all looking at her now.

She looked between Athis and Njada, and asked, "What _was_ that?"

"I… I don't know," Athis shook his head. "I'm sorry. I think I'm all right now."

Njada looked down at the floor silently.

After a moment, Ria went back to staring at the hearth. It was easier than trying to make eye contact with anybody right now.

"We do actually need to fight sabre cats and clear bandit forts, though," said a voice from across the table.

Ria looked up. It was one of the newer recruits. A Nord boy, younger than Ria herself. Long, swept-back sandy hair, nice neat beard, fairly heavy-built features. As boys went, quite manly, really. Name of Erik. He had a hand up, tentatively, like he wanted to ask a question.

No one said anything.

"Well, we do, don't we? That's where we get our money. We're mercenaries, basically."

"That's not a very nice word," said Athis.

"No, but it's true. Right? People give us their gold, we lend them our steel. It's good. Right?"

Njada let out a long sigh. "… All right. I think I'm going to go have a nice tender moment with one of the practice dummies out back."

She left without another word. Probably a good thing, Ria thought. It felt like the mood in here relaxed a little once she shut the door behind her.

"It _was_ good," Athis replied, after a moment. "The Circle ran all that, though. I know the Circle's not as old as the Companions themselves, but… Has there ever been a time, since it was formed, that everyone in it _died?_ All at once?"

No one really answered. Ria shrugged. She was still leaning on the chair, which she sort of needed right now. After that … thing, just now, she was still feeling a little shaky.

"Well, I don't think they'd want us all charging blindly into battle for them," Erik said. "How old is this place? How many thousands of years? The Companions have survived this whole time. Njada had a point, Athis. If we're not careful, we'll get killed, and all this Nordic tradition will die with us."

Athis slowly walked over to sit back down where he'd been before. Ria did the same. Her mead was still waiting for her. She decided to give it a sip. It'd actually gotten rather warm. Not that that dulled its fire over her tongue.

Maybe it was time for her to say something. She just said the first thing to come to mind.

"First, we need to get our own affairs in order. Someone needs to stay around here and sort out all the jobs we get. I don't… I don't really know what to say besides that. But can we agree on that?"

"What, someone to act in place of the entire Circle?" Athis gave Ria a puzzled look. "I don't know how they even worked. Who else knows how this job business works?"

Ria returned the look readily enough. "I don't know, but someone has to—"

Someone said, "Oh, fine, I'll do it." Ria had to take a moment to realize who it was.

It was Vignar Gray-Mane. He was walking up slowly to the hearth, taking in the sight of everyone at the tables. "I'm too old to fight, and you lot are too young to sit around. You're all disgracing yourselves. Now, we've lost a great many warriors of late. But that's no excuse for you to stay here and mope. You're Companions, now it's time you started acting like it."

No one said anything.

Vignar sighed and shook his head, then went back to leaning against the wall. That had probably been the most generous thing he'd said or done in years. At least no one was putting him through the indignity of getting thanked for it.

"I'm going to go get some air," Ria said, standing up slowly. "I'll be outside if you need me." And with that, she went out the doors. The front ones, not the back ones. She didn't want to deal with Njada right then.

It was a cool, brisk evening outside. The sun was setting over the horizon beyond the city walls. It was a nice view. Ria sat down on the top of the steps leading down to the Wind District. To her pleasure, Heimskr seemed to be done preaching for the day. She wasn't in the mood for the background noise of his yammering about Talos.

It was nice. A nice quiet meandering evening in Whiterun. Even from up here, over the distant chatter of the city, she could hear the sound of the breeze rushing through the leaves of the Gildergreen. It was so refreshing, compared to what she'd just been witnessing.

Things had gotten pretty rough around here. No one in Jorrvaskr had been talking lately. She figured they'd just all traded more words tonight than they had in the entire past week.

It was sad that they couldn't bury the members of the Circle. They'd all gotten hit by a blast of dragon fire, by the sound of it. By the time the news had made it to Jorrvaskr, there was nothing left outside the Western Watchtower but burnt earth. There wasn't much to be done for that. Ria did find herself wondering what she'd do, to survive what they'd fallen to. Maybe use a magical shield or something.

The doors opened behind her. She didn't look.

Someone sat down on the stairs next to her. _Now_ she looked. Honestly, she hadn't been sure what she'd been expecting. Not a lot of people in Jorrvaskr wanted to give her their time. But this fellow seemed to.

"Is it all right if I sit here with you?" Erik asked.

Ria gave him a slow, sidelong smile. "I'm not the sort of person who'd tell you to just _leave_."

"Fickle Imperial things, right?" It was true, Ria was pretty much the only Imperial in the Companions' ranks. Erik chuckled softly. "You feeling all right? That… Just now, that was…"

"That was madness," Ria shook her head.

"Well said. I don't think Vilkas would be thrilled with us right now, if he saw this."

"And now we've joined most of the Companions in just not being in Jorrvaskr. This is great, isn't it?" But increasingly understandable. Ria was actually sort of wondering if the people still in there were about to start another fight. She didn't want to check.

Erik dipped a shoulder in a sort of theatrical shrug. "In fairness, it is nice out here. I used to live in Rorikstead, you know. Actually a pretty nice place."

"About as far west as nice places exist in Skyrim, these days," Ria grumbled.

"True," Erik said, quietly. Then, with a bit of renewed cheerfulness, "Did you hear that Breezehome is for sale again? The Dragonborn just gave it back to the city."

Breezehome. Strange little piece of property, that was. Mainly it was famous for being a house in the middle of the Plains District, which was all shops. It was built all wrong to be a shop itself. When Ria had first shown up in Whiterun, it'd been up for sale for months.

But she replied, "Not what I heard. I heard he was giving it back for usage as an orphanage."

"What—" Erik actually scoffed. "Really? Breezehome? It's tiny. How many orphans do you think it'd fit? Three?"

"It's expensive as Oblivion, though. You know how the Dragonborn paid for it?"

"Uh… Nnnno. I wasn't here for that."

"Well, I was," Ria smirked. Just a little. "He paid for it with the skeleton of that dragon he killed. Out by the Western Watchtower. I watched the guards drag it into the city piece by piece. I think it's still underneath Dragonsreach."

"Wow. That's one for the songs." Erik leaned forwards onto his elbows. He was looking out at the sunset. "I wonder what he's up to these days. Probably something a lot more heroic than us."

"Oh, don't say that. We're the Companions. Heroism just comes our way." Ria put on her best winning smile. "It's because we're the best, and we live in an upside-down boat and drink mead all day. And we're the best."

Erik twisted around and looked back up at Jorrvaskr. He frowned. "We _do_ live in an upside-down boat. Maybe I should buy Breezehome. I could have a normal roof."

"You'd be living under it with three orphans."

"Oh, for Talos' sake."

Ria smiled nicely. Erik turned around and put his face in his hands.

It was a little strange to be having such a nice chat after what'd just happened inside. Especially given that Ria had only had one mouthful of mead. Not enough to loosen up all the tension from that… incident. But on some level, it wasn't really surprising. Everyone wanted to get back to their way of life. The good way of life. The way of the Companions, basically. Some of them might've been having more trouble with that than others.

"Ria," Erik said, still muffled by his hands, before lowering them and looking right at her. He was frowning deeply, and that wasn't something he did often. "What are we going to do?"

That was enough to give the Imperial a bit of pause. She had to interpret how Erik even meant the question. "With… the Circle gone, you mean? I… I suppose it's time for us to just look after ourselves and one another, until we can figure out something bigger to do."

"Well, sure. That's what I mean. 'Something bigger'. Njada was right about one thing, the world's changing. We can't pretend it's not."

Ria nodded slowly. "On the other hand, I'm not sure if Vilkas himself would've known what to do right now."

Erik sighed and leaned back on his hands. He tilted his head back to look up at the sky, and for a moment it looked like he was going to say something thoughtful, but then he raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth silently. He was just staring straight up.

A moment went by in silence. "… What?"

"This… Doesn't look normal," Erik said quietly.

Then Ria looked up too.

The sun was setting, casting shades of pink and orange through the dark blue sky. By no standard was it nighttime. Yet scattered all through the skies above were the bright white pinpricks of a whole score of stars.

Erik asked, "What do you think this means?"

"I don't know," Ria said. "Maybe it's Skyrim's latest big grand turning point."


	4. Aicantar 1

Middas, 10:11 AM, 29th of Rain's Hand, 4E 202

Understone Keep

Aicantar walked through the old stone corridors of the keep by himself. Guards in golden armor stood on watch at every corner, but no one else was in here. They were all watching him. He couldn't wait to get out.

Once, this place had actually been really messy. It'd pretty much looked like a dig site, which it actually was. Piles of dirt and rubble everywhere, getting in the way of everything. He should've been glad to have all that mess gone. But honestly, these days he just missed it.

Ever since the Altmer had first come here as a boy, about fifteen years ago, he'd lived in this keep. His uncle Calcelmo had served Jarl Igmund as court wizard, which basically meant he had free reign to study the ruins under the city. Understone Keep was often considered the innermost point of Markarth, but really, it was just the start of the tunnels leading down into Nchuand-Zel. The only surface-side Dwemer-made city in Skyrim, and it had a _second_ city underneath it. What were the odds?

He was sure his uncle had taken this job as Markarth's court wizard just so he could have free access to Nchuand-Zel, in any case. It worked out well for everyone. Or it had, back fifteen years ago. Things weren't going so smoothly these days.

It wasn't the Silver-Blood family corrupting everyone with their influence that was the problem. And it wasn't the Forsworn, the native Reachmen fighting back against some political thing from before Aicantar's lifetime. It was the Thalmor. The watchful Altmer overlords from Alinor, a land Aicantar barely remembered.

Thanks to them, the Silver-Blood family, the countless Forsworn of the countryside, and even Jarl Igmund himself were all dead. Skyrim was at war, and Markarth was the Aldmeri Dominion's foothold in the province. Calcelmo was no longer a court wizard, because there was no longer a court. He did his research at the Thalmor's pleasure. The closest thing Markarth had to a leader now was the Dremora-in-disguise named General Colaeon.

And as it happened, General Colaeon hated what he saw as the squalor of Understone Keep's interior, so he'd had the city guard clear out all the rubble and put it outside. Then, once the manual labor was done with, he'd had the city guard killed.

Now the corridors in here looked less clean and more bare. Aicantar just wanted to get this errand done with so he could get back to his lab. It wasn't even for his own work, it was just some new thing for his uncle. There was no one else left for his uncle to order around.

So he hurried his way along to the keep's outer doors, and stepped on through to the cool, fresh air of the outside. Though it didn't really deter him, he knew it was pointless of him to be hurrying. He already knew this wasn't going to be an improvement.

Aicantar was sure that it was mid-morning or so, but there wasn't any sunshine out here. The whole sky was blanketed with thick gray clouds that made it impossible to tell what time of day it was. Everything was the same gloomy overcast color. It really fit the mood of things nicely right then, he thought.

One of the guards outside the doors said, more like a challenge than a question, "Heading out, are you?"

It took Aicantar a moment to realize he was being talked to. He hesitated mid-step, and looked over his shoulder to give the guard a feigned sheepish smile. He did not want to be having this conversation. "I'm just getting some supplies for my uncle," he replied.

"Well, do be safe out there, young mage," the guard smiled. "The city is ever so perilous for those of us without the skill to defend ourselves."

Aicantar couldn't think of a witty retort to that. And even if he could, he wasn't going to use it against an Aldmeri soldier. He just looked back ahead and kept his head down, and… kept walking. The errand. He had to focus on the errand.

Fortunately, his destination wasn't too far away. The Hag's Cure. Markarth's dedicated alchemist shop. Calcelmo frequently purchased his reagents from there. And it was built into the mountainside on nearly the same level as the doors to the keep. Aicantar liked how close by it was. It meant he didn't have to go down into the depths of the city itself.

Every time he came out here, he saw the Aldmeri guards passing by on patrol down below. Golden-armored figures, walking in pairs from street to street. The sight of them made Aicantar's throat tighten up. He didn't want to look at them.

One time, a couple weeks ago, Calcelmo had sent him down to the front of the city to get a silver ring for enchanting. The passersby on the street gave him the same nasty looks as always, but it'd been in broad daylight. He knew they wouldn't try anything. Then on the way back to the keep, he'd come up one of the hundred stone staircases of the city streets, and witnessed two guards apprehending someone. A Breton lady, young-looking, in a green dress. One of the guards grabbed her, and she started to scream, and… The last thing Aicantar remembered was seeing them dragging her off the street, out of view. He ran away so fast that he fell down one of the flights of stairs. Skinned the side of his hand on the stones. He didn't even care.

That was then. Now whenever he went out, he just kept his eyes on the ground in front of him. It was a short walk. He'd be fine.

When Aicantar got to the doors of the Hag's Cure, he realized this wasn't going to be fine. The doors were wide open. They were never open.

He didn't want to go in here anymore. But Calcelmo had specifically requested a sample of canis root and an imp stool mushroom. It wouldn't be good to come back empty-handed. More than that, though Aicantar hated to admit it to himself, he was curious what was going on here. He walked down the stairs into the shop space below.

It was cramped and dim in here. There wasn't really any natural light, just the orange warmth of lots of candles burning away. But Aicantar didn't have to look hard to see that there'd been a scuffle in here. There were dishes and ingredients scattered all over the floor in front of the counter. One of the barrels against the wall had actually fallen over onto its side. There weren't actually a lot of ingredients in here for sale—many of the shelves and bowls and so on were empty. But they'd still managed to make a real mess of the ones that remained.

He didn't even have it in himself to feel horrified. He was just sort of dazed. It made sense that the Thalmor would go after this place's owner. She was an older lady, very eccentric, obviously sympathetic to the Forsworn. Name of Bothela. She literally wore her allegiance on her face, being that it was covered in a whole bunch of black tribal-looking tattoos. Now she was gone. So was her assistant. Muiri, her name was. They were both gone.

They'd probably never be seen again, too. That realization came to Aicantar with an underwhelm of emotion. He still didn't have it in himself to think much about this.

It probably wasn't good for him to stand around in here for long. He didn't want to be seen in the middle of this all. So for lack of anything else to do—he really couldn't think of anything else to do, in the middle of this—Aicantar scanned the shelves for the ingredients he needed, put them in a cloth bag, and left some gold on the counter so this wouldn't count as theft. He was sure if the Thalmor decided to accuse him of stealing, they could just ignore it, but it didn't feel right not to pay. He still lived in civilization, even if no one else did.

Part of him wanted to run back to Understone Keep, but running was suspicious and he didn't want to be stopped by the guards. So he just walked out, at a very calm, controlled pace. His head was feeling a little fuzzy inside. Bothela had been arrested. The Thalmor had taken her away. He wasn't having an easy time getting himself to acknowledge that.

Walking back to the keep this way, the Aldmeri garrison was plainly visible across the city. Originally, it'd been some building of the Silver-Bloods', but they'd gutted it out and expanded it themselves to make room for the soldiers there. There were about 30,000 people in and around Markarth, and the garrison alone had 5,000 regulars. It was a huge building now. A giant ugly rectangle of stone pillars and layered floors, seemingly putting the whole city in its shadow. They'd just built that for themselves. Aicantar wasn't even sure how, but it mustn't have been easy.

Previously, the soldiers had just been making themselves at home in the people of Markarth's own dwellings. But last month, there'd been a change in attitude around here. From what little Aicantar had overheard in the keep, something had happened out by Whiterun, and now the Thalmor's hopes of a quick victory were just gone. They were settling in for a much longer, bloodier war.

And part of that meant that they were pulling their soldiers back from other parts of Skyrim. And they seemed to consider most of the city's homes unfit for putting their soldiers in. So they'd done what a few thousand proficient spellcasting soldiers could reasonably do, and built themselves a garrison on the spot. Now it was just there, soaking up all the food in the city.

Oh, food was a problem too. The farms right around Markarth were still standing, but all the rest in the Reach were gone, and so was all their trade. That was why there'd been so few ingredients left in the Hag's Cure just now, he knew. They were running short on everything. Just… Everything. There was still food enough in Understone Keep, but Aicantar had no idea how long that would last.

He also didn't know what the city folk were eating these days. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

Fifteen years. Aicantar had lived here for fifteen years and counting. That was nearly three-quarters of his whole life. He'd thought he could live here forever. But now it felt very distinctly like Markarth's days were numbered. It put a numbing, seizing feeling deep in his chest to think of. This was supposed to be his home. What was he going to do?

He didn't look at the guards as he returned to the keep. They didn't say anything to him. That was a relief.

The way into Nchuand-Zel was by the first left turn. Calcelmo's workspace was in that direction. Aicantar clutched the top of the cloth bag in his hand as he headed along the path. He didn't know what he was going to say to his uncle about what he'd seen.

The workspace was in a big cavern with a bridge across an underground river. The doors to Nchuand-Zel were on the far side, past a couple of huge dwarven spheres on top of pillars. It was all very grand, but Aicantar didn't care right now. He just wanted to drop the bag off and leave.

His uncle had his equipment set up on the near side of the bridge, off to the side. Right now, his robed form was hunched over the alchemy lab, unsurprisingly. A couple of guards were standing around in here by the entrance, just watching him. Making sure he wasn't doing anything rebellious, or something. Aicantar walked past them and headed over to the workspace area, bag in hand.

"I got you your ingredients, uncle," he said, holding the bag out.

Calcelmo didn't look up from his work. "Mm, very good," he muttered absently. He might not have even realized it was his nephew talking. Pretty normal, these days.

Aicantar just put the bag down next to him, on top of the enchanting table. It was the nearest flat surface. "They're in this bag," he added.

His uncle didn't respond.

"… The Hag's Cure was empty. Bothela and Muiri were gone." Aicantar forced himself not to glance back at the guards. He had to get this out there. He just… He had to. "I think they've been arrested. We… Well, we might not be able to shop there anymore, uncle."

Calcelmo remained silent for a long moment. He was just grinding something in a mortar and pestle. Eventually, he said, "Hmm."

That was that, then. Aicantar sighed and slunk back into the rest of the keep. At least the errand was done with. He could relax now.

And what that meant, first and foremost, was to focus on his own work. A few months ago, he'd been trying to command a dwarven spider with a control rod he'd put together, until the Thalmor had confiscated it. Allegedly, that was for the guards' safety, because the spider had killed one during an early test procedure. Aicantar doubted their reasoning. The Thalmor never cared about the city guards. Colaeon had had them all executed recently anyway.

Besides, that hadn't even been the spider's fault. Aicantar wasn't just being inconsiderate like mages sometimes were. That incident had been the guard's fault through and through. Drawing his sword at the spider. What an imbecile.

Strictly speaking, this wasn't his laboratory, it was his uncle's. It was on the far side of the keep from the Nchuand-Zel entrance, up a staircase and past what had once been Calcelmo's private Dwemer museum. Technically, no one had officially called it otherwise, but the Thalmor officers had been practically living in there since the war started, and now every artifact that could possibly be useful for something had mysteriously gone 'missing'. So completely inexplicable, yes.

It really was a pity. Even if Calcelmo had been content to just put all those things on display for his own amusement, Aicantar might have liked to study them in closer detail. Weapons, armor, tools, daily ware, it'd all been there. The Thalmor were like those soulless treasure hunters who looted Dwemer ruins for prestige and profit, except that they were too lazy to actually sift through the tangled tunnels of Nchuand-Zel.

At this point, Aicantar just wished that the Thalmor would leave their violation of Markarth at that. He didn't understand why they had to be so cruel to everyone.

There were more guards up here. Aicantar ignored them to the best of his ability. If he didn't engage them, they might not engage him. He weaved his way through the tables and pedestals of the museum, then moved on to his own workspace. It was just a little alcove on the left wall, a little bit past the museum's first portion. The barred doors were unlocked and open.

At least the guards weren't in there right now. Sometimes they were, just standing around in his work area, or even looking through his actual materials, getting their hands all over everything. And it wasn't like he could just tell them to leave. They weren't like the Markarth city guard that they'd replaced. They could just stay around as long as they liked. He'd had whole days of research ruined because of that.

But today, it seemed, he could be alone in here. He closed the doors behind himself, turned around, and sat down to review his day's plans. He'd been studying the mechanics of Dwemer gyros, the devices that automatons used to stabilize their motions. That meant there were six of them on his desk. One had been disassembled, and now its pieces were laid out for examination.

There were also a few soul gems sitting on the side. Just little petty-grade things, filled, of course. He'd been trying to use them to make the gyros self-power and run constantly, like the centurion dynamo cores. He was sure he could get it to work.

The Altmer picked up the central disc of the dismantled gyro, and just looked at it. Nothing experimental. He just looked.

Honestly, he had no idea what he was doing with this device. He was so lost. It was impossible to focus right now.

He really couldn't focus. His mind was drifting all over the place. He dropped the gyro piece back on the desk, and put his hand to his forehead.

Markarth's days were numbered. It didn't even matter what he did anymore. This place had been his home, once. He'd thought he'd had a future here. But the Thalmor plainly had no intention of leaving this city standing. They'd already bled it nearly dry. He didn't even know what was left for them to take away.

Sooner or later, everyone here was going to run out of luck. Aicantar just didn't know when it was going to be his turn.


	5. Thorald 1

Fredas, 9:22 AM, 8th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Alftand

Thorald was having trouble getting used to all the ghosts outside this place. There must have been at least fifty of them, all standing around on the ice, sleeplessly watching over the city's entrances. It gave the impression that the Dragonborn must've had a really strange recruiting campaign for his guards. In any case, they didn't give him any trouble on the way in. That task was left specifically to his new Dunmer acquaintance.

"Is this a functional Dwemer lift? It's so rare to see these in working condition! Of course, as always, you would be more likely to find better-preserved Dwemer technology in Skyrim, but woefully many ruins throughout Morrowind, for example, no longer have usable lifts, and the vertical distances involved are sometimes problematic for involved study—"

Holy Talos. She just never stopped.

"Do you suppose I might have the chance to study the mechanisms of this lift? I believe if I'm able to disassemble some of the gear assemblies, I may be able to ascertain the nature of the hydraulic power source, which could prove very useful!"

"No," said Thorald, before pushing the lever on the lift cabin floor. The doors swung shut, the gears hissed into motion, and they were underground. He barely even noticed the feeling of the floor dropping. But soon enough, the rocky walls of the shaft were speeding upward around them.

He'd done this a hundred times, it felt like. Nothing too special. But this elf he was with, Zaryth, was peering at every little crevice in here like it was some kind of mythical treasure, and sharing every last Dwemer-related thought to pop into her head. Which didn't surprise him. She'd been chatting nonstop about Dwemer trivia for long enough that her jaw should have gone numb.

Eventually, she stopped, and asked him, "So what were those ghosts doing up there? They seemed unresponsive. Your Dragonborn hasn't been dabbling in necromancy, has he?"

Thorald shook his head. "There was an attack on Alftand, about three months ago. We'd been sheltering near eight thousand people, and the Dominion slaughtered most of them. We should've lost that battle, but, uh… Well, Hermaeus Mora himself stepped in. Turned the whole Dominion army to ash. But I think some of our men got taken with them, and those ghosts are Hermaeus Mora trying to give them back to us."

That got Zaryth to stop talking for a second. She frowned and stared at the wall for a little while, just watching the rocky surface passing by, before speaking again. "I must admit that I don't know a great deal about the extent of Hermaeus Mora's power. But this does sound like an excellent opportunity to learn. When possible, I'd like to study these ghosts in greater detail, or even speak to them, if they're capable of such. Whatever they've experienced is sure to yield some new insight into the nature of Apocrypha and its workings."

Thorald shrugged. "We've talked to them before. But do as you like. Just try not to kill them. They already had to go through that experience once."

The Dunmer nodded silently and went back to studying the room. She'd been relentlessly taking everything as a possible scholarly pursuit, ever since Saarthal. Thorald guessed that that was just her usual personality, but it made him a little concerned. He'd seen how terrified Zaryth had been when those mages had attacked her, and then a few minutes later when he'd spoken to her, she'd gone straight from asking what he even was—because apparently his armor made him look like an automaton now—to just rambling on airily about Dwemer archaeology. That wasn't how most people reacted to having a brush with death.

Fortunately, the lift ride wasn't very long. Soon enough, the lift doors opened, and a breeze of warm air filled the cabin. Thorald let out a sigh of relief and pulled off his helmet, moving it to beneath his arm. This was much better.

The moment the Nord's face was visible again, Zaryth gave him a brief, appraising look. That wasn't a surprise. On the way over here, anytime Thorald had had the helmet on, Zaryth hadn't even wanted to look at him, let alone talk to him. She'd only started talking again now as they'd come within sight of Alftand's surface buildings. Thorald couldn't blame her. Even with it made clear that he was a person underneath this armor, the visor made him look pretty unfriendly. He liked to think his face didn't do the same.

Once, this lift had opened directly into a central room in the Alftand animonculory. But after the Aldmeri Dominion had used it as a shortcut past the city's defenses, the room's design had been… somewhat revised. Now the Nord walked out through a pair of huge solid dwarven metal doors into a short stone hallway, closed at the end by another pair of the same.

Zaryth followed behind him at a reluctant distance. "This looks like a newer addition," she said, which was accurate. "The stonework is completely mismatched for Dwemer building style. What is this for?"

"Step inside," Thorald said, then walked up to the doors at the far end. Rather, he walked up to the wall next to it. There was a single golden button set into a recess in the stone, and above it, a green glassy lens ringed in the same metal. He wondered if Zaryth would recognize these as new additions too. If she did, she wasn't talking.

In any case, he pressed the button with his armored thumb, leaned in to the lens, and said very clearly, "Thorald Gray-Mane."

First, the first pair of doors swung closed of their own accord. Then the lens rotated slowly in its frame, retreating slightly into the wall, before coming to life with a huge cone of brilliant white light. Thorald stood patiently as he was bathed in the glow for a couple seconds. And then, just like that, it was over. The second pair of doors opened up immediately afterward.

On the other side was a room with a whole bunch of additional doors along the walls, branching off to different parts of the animonculory. Supposedly, this area had been quite busy, once. Now the only sound was the hum of dwarven machinery. Thorald stood and waited patiently for Zaryth to catch up.

The Dunmer was walking forwards slowly, coming up to him with a puzzled look on her face. She looked like she wasn't even sure what to ask.

"These doors don't open for everyone," he said, by way of explanation. "Spies can steal a key or pick a lock, but they can't mimic my whole body."

"Hm." Now she was peering inquisitively at the lens. "I take it there's some form of excessively lethal trap that activates if the wrong person tries to get through?"

Thorald couldn't quite contain his reaction. "What? No! Divines, no. That… That sounds idiotic. No, it just trips an alarm on the other side so we can see who it is. I mean, there are still traps, of course. They're all activated manually."

Once they were both on the other side of the doors, they swung closed again. Behind them, the first pair would be opening once more. It was mechanically impossible for both pairs to be open at once. An extra way to keep people from getting in too quickly. It would've been handy a few months ago when Aldmeri soldiers had been pouring through by the hundred, that was for sure.

Thorald sighed and gave his shoulders a roll. He'd been in this armor for a while. He was looking forward to getting down to Blackreach and getting out of it. "There's only about a thousand people here now. Most of the action is down below. Of course, there's plenty more security between here and there."

Zaryth nodded along. "All right. What else do we need to do, then?"

"Well, besides going through all the checkpoints and so on, we'll need to have your mind scanned for Thalmor influence, and then we can—"

"Wait. Stop. What?" The Dunmer's expression snapped to one of warning. She put her gloved hands up, and for a moment Thorald wondered if she planned to cast a spell, but it looked like she was just making a hand gesture. He could never really tell, with these mages.

"Uh…" Thorald had to mentally backtrack and see what Zaryth was concerned about. "Mind-scanning? It's fairly new magic. We have someone who can do it. It's harmless, only takes a couple seconds, and… Well, we sort of need it. We've lost people to Thalmor spies before."

Zaryth scoffed incredulously. "You think _I'm_ a Thalmor spy? I'm not a Thalmor spy, you're a Thalmor spy. You—you have to be joking. I barely even know who these people are! They tried to kill me!"

Thorald understood the reaction. He'd had a somewhat similar one when he'd first heard about the mind-scan spell. Still, facts were facts. "You might not even be aware that you've been influenced by them. They're masters of spying like that. Just bear with me, all right?"

Before Zaryth could answer, he headed over to one of the doors, pushed it open, and started off in the direction of the Alftand cathedral. Behind him, Zaryth responded with a flustered "Hey—wait!", and started running to catch up. Thorald just kept walking.

"You don't understand," Zaryth said, once she was walking at Thorald's side again. She was looking at him, trying to gauge a reaction, but he kept on looking forward while she talked. "Not that you would, being a Nord warrior—do you even know anything about these ruins?—but I'm a Telvanni mage. More than that, I'm a scholar! I'm not going to let someone simply start feeling around in my head for all my hidden thoughts. You don't understand what sort of jeopardy that might put us in. No, you don't care in the slightest, do you? Are—are you even listening to me?"

"Yes," Thorald replied mildly, as he continued walking. They were passing by workers now and then. No big deal.

"Well, there's a difference between listening and understanding, I'd gladly remind you. Don't get me wrong, I'm willing to put myself into this venture as much as I need to. The academic opportunities are incredible! But the fact remains, that I am still a Telvanni mage, and that there are ramifications that come with that, Thorald. If you're going to have some Nord excuse for a wizard trying to unravel my secrets—"

"He's a Dunmer, actually," Thorald said dully. At least while this lady was talking away, they were getting closer to the cathedral.

"… Oh." For some reason, that seemed to ease Zaryth's reaction a little bit. They walked on a little bit longer in silence. Maybe this would go all right.

Before they got too far along, Thorald took a detour down a smaller side corridor, to a spacious, steamy room filled with pipes all along the ceiling and walls. There was a short, wide sort of antechamber ringed with benches and wall hooks, and a low stone lip before the rest of the room. The showers. One of a few such rooms in Alftand, anyway. Thorald loved these. Thankfully, the workers had been diligent about leaving plenty of towels.

He turned around and asked, "Can you stay here while I handle some things? Freshen up a little, maybe?"

"Yes, I think so," Zaryth said, audibly uncertainly. "What are you doing?"

"I just need to get that Dunmer for you."

While Zaryth busied herself with getting clean, Thorald walked the rest of the way down to the cathedral. He had to, for this part.

This was the lowest area in Alftand, and the last before the lift down to Blackreach. It was a respectably spacious cavern, with rough, craggy walls arching up to the ceiling all around. The ground was a bit rough too, with a road running through a gate and up some stairs to the last door. A couple of guards were standing at either side of the gate, and Thorald knew there'd be more on top of the balcony over the cathedral entrance.

Once, this had been where the Dragonborn's forces had made their last stand against the Aldmeri Dominion. Thorald knew of only one survivor from that fight, and he was a jarl now.

There was a ramp starting on the cavern's left, leading back up to the balcony above. Thorald didn't bother to climb it. Instead, he just looked up and called out, "Hey, we got an eleven-five, bring him in!"

A Nordic-sounding voice called back, "Eleven-five, on the way!"

That was that, then. Thorald doubled back to the showers as quickly as he could. He couldn't wait to get clean. He just hoped he wasn't going to end up making Zaryth wait for him.

When he got there, Zaryth was still in the room. Fully clothed, perfectly dry, standing in the middle of the showers, peering intently at the pipes running across the ceiling.

Honestly, Thorald wasn't sure what he'd expected.

Twenty minutes and some changed clothes later, the two of them were walking down to the cathedral together. Thorald still had his armor on, helmet under his arm as before. The weight didn't bother him one bit, even after a couple days' walk. He just felt so fresh right now. It was glorious.

Naturally, the moment they entered the cavern, Zaryth immediately launched into an endless stream of words about the fact that it looked to be naturally occurred. Thorald let her go on with it. It looked like their Dunmer hadn't shown up yet. He just needed to wait.

So while Zaryth went and started raving about the uniqueness of a patch of mushrooms in the corner, Thorald went over and sat down on the ramp to the balcony. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.

The wait went on for about ten more minutes. Thorald had been sort of wondering if eventually Zaryth would exhaust herself on all of the new sights of Alftand, but so far, she was still at it. Not a problem. They weren't in a hurry.

There was a device up on top of that balcony. A dwarven-looking device, though like the locked doors in the animonculory, it was a new addition. A fairly large, podium-like machine of dwarven metal, with a blank stone tablet at its center. Thorald had been there for its installation. That'd been just last week.

From what he understood, it relied on a simple bit of alteration-based detection magic to send signals to other such devices, elsewhere in Tamriel, more or less instantly. But it was time-consuming to send signals through it, since it was constrained essentially to 'on' and 'off', and everything had to be sent as a sort of abstract not-language. To save time, they had a list of numbered codes, all beginning with '11', which all meant different commonly-used messages. For example, '11 5' meant 'come to Alftand, we have a newcomer who needs scanning'.

Suddenly, a bright purple orb of swirling magic sprang up in the middle of the cathedral floor. An instant later, a bearded Dunmer was standing there in ornate hooded robes, looking around the room curiously.

Thorald pushed himself off the floor and walked on over. He couldn't help himself from grinning. "Savos! It's so good to see you."

The Dunmer turned around to face him, and smiled back in kind. It was a warm, genuine smile, not the perfunctory polite one mages liked to give to people they worked with. "Well, this is a pleasant surprise," he said. "I thought you were out on a mission?"

"I just got back," Thorald nodded. "Turns out those Thalmor fellows were out to assassinate someone. A Dunmer mage, like yourself. She's—actually, she's right there."

Thorald pointed past Savos' side. Zaryth was walking slowly up to the two of them, staring in surprise. "… Savos Aren? Is that you?"

The Dunmer turned around. Thorald didn't see the look on his face, but he imagined it was just inquisitive. "Ah… Zaryth, yes? I'm sorry, it's been so long. I've been keeping track of your publications. Excellent work, all of it."

Thorald circled around to stand in a sort of triangle with them. This was actually sort of fun to watch.

In response to the remark about her written works, Zaryth smiled sheepishly. That was new. "Thank you, Savos," she said. "Congratulations on becoming Arch-Mage. The robes look good on you."

Savos laughed aloud and held out his hands to examine the sleeves. "Yes, well, they are what they are. It's been too long, Zaryth." Then he looked at Thorald, then back at Zaryth. "Assassins, hmm? That's unfortunate. Did they hurt you?"

"Not quite enough," Zaryth replied breezily. "So, I've heard something about a mind-scan. What's this about?"

"A new spell that I devised the other week," Savos replied with a similar tone of voice. "It's not as invasive as it sounds. It's a very brief, limited link between our minds. I'll just think of the Thalmor, and of subterfuge, and see how you react. I suppose it counts as alteration. Would you prefer it to count as mysticism?"

Zaryth looked down sullenly at the ground in front of her, and muttered, "I don't want to talk about mysticism."

Savos snorted mirthfully and walked up to beside his fellow mage. They really did look natural together. It was uncanny. "Are you ready?"

A moment went by. Zaryth was still frowning at the ground.

"Just remember," Thorald said, "this is a precaution that we all—"

Savos looked over sharply at Thorald and said, in a completely uncharacteristic deep guttural impression, "Mind yourself, outlander."

Thorald pretty much died laughing. Zaryth seemed decently amused herself. Eventually, she nodded. "All right, Savos. If we must. Just… Be quick about it."

"No sooner said than—" The Arch-Mage raised both hands, one to either side of Zaryth's head, and cast some sort of glowing green spell. He held it for about two seconds, then stopped and let his hands fall. "Done. Yes, you're quite fine to proceed. Enjoy the sights! Anything else, Thorald?"

"No, that's all, thank you," Thorald smiled. "You can go back to your mage business now."

"Be safe," Savos said, and then with another swirling purple flash, he was gone.

Thorald presumed that the 'outlander' remark, with whatever that impression was, had been a deliberate move to ease Zaryth's nerves. Not a bad move, by the looks of it. In any case, they were ready to proceed, so he started through the gate and up the stairs, and let Zaryth follow as she liked.

The doors to the lift were secured with a dwarven lock. Essentially impossible to pick, not that Thorald was one to try. He had the key on his person. He slotted it in, turned the latch, and they were on their way. At least until he got to the second pair of doors. This was another one of those two-doorway setups, except this one had been here when Thorald had first arrived.

Behind them was a room with a strange dwarven assembly, like a table of sorts, surfaced with huge concentric rings of metal around some blue crystal lens-things. Just… It was a dwarven assembly. But going around it was a stairway going down to a barred grate-style door, and behind _that_ , a bottomless pit. That was what it looked like. A perfectly circular hole in the floor, lined with four vertical gear tracks, descending down into pitch blackness.

So the lift was at the bottom right now. No problem. One button press, and the lift was summoned up. Thorald leaned against the wall and let out a long sigh.

Zaryth peered through the grate. Thorald saw her swallow involuntarily. A fair reaction, he thought. "How… Deep is this shaft, exactly?"

"I don't know. A mile, maybe? The lift takes a good few minutes. Uh… About four minutes."

"A mile! That's, what, a sixth of the height of the Throat of the World?" The Dunmer gaped at him for a second, then went back to peering down the shaft. "It's truly incredible that the Dwemer knew exactly where to dig in order to align this lift correctly. They must have pinpointed the correct location in Blackreach perfectly. And it's lucky that the location is so close to Alftand's lower levels, as well."

"Maybe Alftand's lower levels were built specifically so they'd lead to this location," Thorald said flatly. "Or maybe the whole city of Alftand was built right here in the Winterhold, just because it happens to be right above the spot where this arm of Blackreach ends."

Zaryth turned and looked at Thorald again, silently. She looked down for a second, evidently in contemplation, then just nodded and continued waiting for the lift.

It arrived quickly enough, in the end. The noise came first, a thrumming grind of approaching gears from down below. Then the gray ceiling of the lift came rising into view, and eventually passed the corridor floor. The lift cabin came into sudden view, as its floor slowed to a halt right at the level of Alftand's own. The grated doors swung open, as did a second pair inside the lift itself.

Its interior was basically identical to that of the lift from earlier. They all seemed the same to Thorald. But maybe Zaryth could detect some subtle differences that he couldn't see himself. Maybe this one had been built a few hundred years after the other, or something like that. He imagined that if it were the case, he'd hear about it soon enough. For now, he just pulled the lever and started them off.

But in the end, Zaryth didn't end up talking about the lift. Even once it accelerated to full speed, and the rocky walls going by were essentially a blur, she was ignoring her surroundings right now. "I can't wait to see how this looks! Blackreach. FalZhardum Din. Such an ancient wonder, and I can't imagine the sheer size of it. To connect three entire holds of Skyrim—it must seem like the outdoors, down there."

"You're more right than you know," Thorald said mildly, but he didn't elaborate. He wanted Zaryth to experience this for herself.

The Dunmer kept on talking for a while, but Thorald was only half-listening. He was busy having thoughts of his own. Reminiscing on the first time he'd used this lift, with that wood elf friend of the Dragonborn's, and what it'd been like to join the Black Machine. Back then, his crowning achievement against the Thalmor had been that one time when he'd slain a couple of elven scouts on the riverbank beneath Solitude. That seemed like an entire era ago, now. He'd had no idea what had been in store for him.

He'd visited Whiterun the other week. Just a brief thing, for a couple days, after the big stuff over to the west of it. He hadn't seen his family since before the Thalmor had kidnapped him, and that meant that it'd been well over a year. His mother, Fralia, had been so overjoyed to see him. They all had, but especially her. She'd gotten his father Eorlund to hammer out a necklace for him in one afternoon, and the Dragonsreach court wizard Farengar to enchant it, just as a special gift for him. It had all been so exciting… for his family. For Thorald himself, it felt like none of them knew him anymore. He thought on that for a little while.

Then, after a while, he started thinking about the elf he was sharing this lift with right now. Zaryth Velani. Even before Savos' scan had proven her to be clean, Thorald had felt like Zaryth's arrival in Blackreach could only possibly herald good things to come. She was obviously an accomplished academic sort, and the Dragonborn wasn't exactly around these days to lend his own insights, so they needed all the help they could get.

Of course, she obviously had a bit of trouble with how she handled people. It'd been a little grating to have her along for a whole couple of days. Thorald could only imagine what sort of background, what sort of upbringing, had led her to treat unfamiliar faces with such casual disdain. That wasn't a recent change in her feelings, that was an opinion of the world. But… at the same time, listening to her now, listening to her go on about her scholarly things like always, Zaryth sounded to Thorald like she was very happy.

She was happy with what she did. Thorald found that rather enviable.

Eventually, the lift started to slow back down. Thorald's knees bent a little as he took in the added feeling of weight. At the bottom of this shaft, there was a short corridor to a pair of outer doors, made of solid dwarven metal. And as it rose into place, it occurred to him that Zaryth had never seen this before. She never would've seen anything like it. She'd only have this moment once in her lifetime.

The lift doors swung open. Thorald stood aside silently and let Zaryth pass through first. He didn't want to be in the way as she first laid eyes on what was beyond.


	6. Logrolf 1

Fredas, 1:12 PM, 1st of Second Seed, 4E 202

Sacellum of Boethiah

Logrolf had only just returned here, and he already knew Boethiah was gone. The moment when it hit him beyond all hope for doubt was just as he was climbing the last steps, just as the Daedric shrine came into view. Just when he was on Boethiah's doorstep once again. But, he realized, he had known it for far longer. He just hadn't wanted to believe.

This had all begun when the Nord had been forced to flee Markarth. He'd led a peaceful, faithful life there—by which he meant, he'd discovered a shrine to Molag Bal in the cellar of a house, and he'd responded by buying the house and routinely consecrating the shrine in Boethiah's name. The two Daedric Princes were bitter rivals, and Logrolf obeyed the will of the Queen of Shadows.

But that had ended when the war between the Empire and the Dominion resumed. The elves had wasted no time in taking Markarth for their own. Logrolf had needed to leave for his own safety. That was where it had all begun, since his next action had been to trek all the way across Skyrim, to Boethiah's sanctuary on the far end of Eastmarch. His service was not yet over.

He had never visited the shrine before, in person. But he endured the cold well enough, and he endured the company of Boethiah's cultists all the same. He could not describe how fortunate it had felt when Boethiah had smiled upon him in particular. Every task she had set upon him had been worth it. Every blood-soaked trial, every test of mettle and will, it had all paid off. He had become a Daedric champion for his trouble, and he had worn the Ebony Mail beneath his robes with nothing but pride.

In any case, he had also befriended a sweet, delicate Nord girl from Windhelm, brought her up on an adventure to the mountainside shrine, and sacrificed her to Boethiah on the freestanding pillar before Boethiah's great statue. Not the sort of experience that one easily forgot. But Logrolf had no regret. He was ever faithful to Boethiah's will. There was nothing he would not have done to earn her favor, and there was nothing he would not have done to keep it.

And so a brief span of time had passed, during which Logrolf enjoyed his time at the top of Boethiah's mortal hierarchy. But the emphasis was on 'brief'. It'd been six weeks or so ago, now, that he'd been awarded the Ebony Mail. Then two weeks afterward, so a month ago, nearly to the day, Boethiah had spoken to him. An urgent, terse message. Travel to the Sleeping Tree Camp to the west of Whiterun. Bring all the help he possibly could. Stop some heroes from doing something with a dragon priest.

Naturally, he'd gathered up every last cultist at the shrine, and set off west immediately. The message had been not simply terse, but actually uneasy. Boethiah, of all beings, had sounded worried. And that had given Logrolf a chill of dread. This was more than a simple time-sensitive task. Something would go very wrong if he did not serve well.

Logrolf did not know what would have happened at the Sleeping Tree Camp. They never ended up arriving.

Halfway through Whiterun Hold, he and his traveling group were marching along, and a great silver dragon had swooped down from the sky and bathed them in fire. Half of their number had died instantly. The rest scattered. In a split second, everything had fallen apart. And in hindsight, all hope for Boethiah had ended right then and there.

Only the Ebony Mail had saved Logrolf's life. He'd run for cover, and jumped into a little pond beneath an alcove—which had turned out to be a den for mudcrabs. His armor had killed the creatures with its energy alone, and with the same energy, protected him from the dragon's sight. All he could do then was wait for the noises to stop, and then come back out from his hiding place.

At that point, nothing had felt real. The soil itself was on fire. His fellow worshipers were all smoldering corpses. Logrolf was the sole survivor of the dragon's attack. His memories of that time were a muddled blur. He only knew that from that point, he had simply wandered.

The next thing he remembered was finding someplace to sleep for the night, and right as he went to lie down, feeling the Ebony Mail disintegrate. It hadn't simply vanished off his body, as though it had returned to Oblivion. It had crumbled to dust and fallen apart, just as instantaneously as the dragon had attacked.

He had not served well. Something had gone very wrong.

Now he had returned east, to Boethiah's shrine. It had been a long, arduous journey, through the plains of Whiterun and the crags of Eastmarch, all through the wilderness, with only the traveling gear on his back to help him. But he had done it, and he had done it as quickly as he could. Today, he had scaled the mountain path to the Sacellum. And now he finally approached the statue, the one that embodied Boethiah's power in this world.

There was a strange thing about it. One quirk of its power. No matter the time of day, when one walked close to its shrine, the sky above would be consumed with the appearance of night. Boethiah was the Queen of Shadows, and the sunlight suited her ill. It was simply another way that she showed her nature.

Logrolf climbed the steps to each successive level of the shrine, and walked up to the statue at its top. It stood there as always, fearsome and serpentine, sword held aloft. But the sun remained high and bright in the sky.

It was at this moment that he realized what had gone wrong. He could provide no other explanation. He had not wanted to believe, but… As absurd and horrible as the truth sounded, it was clearly the truth now. There was no more Boethiah.

Her shrine had lost its power, now no more than a mundane work of stone. Her own unique Daedric artifact, awarded to Logrolf as her champion, had turned to dust without her will to sustain it. Whatever she had wanted to prevent at the Sleeping Tree Camp, it had come to pass. Daedric Princes were immortal, unending beings, and yet she was gone, through and through. It was too staggering to even comprehend. Logrolf's own realizations sounded like nonsense. There was no more Boethiah. He was a champion of nothing.

He sank to his knees and stayed there.

At a time of crisis like this, he might have liked to pray. To seek some sort of guidance in the one whose favor he wished to earn. But there was nothing to pray to now. All Logrolf knew was that he had lived his life in service of this Daedric Prince. His long, tumultuous life. So many long years, all spent venerating a being that was no longer there for him. What sort of priest would be forced to grieve for their own god?

Time passed by. The wind was cold, and bit through Logrolf's robes, but he didn't move. His mind had gone blank. He simply couldn't think of what to do with himself now.

Eventually, he closed his eyes, and tried to grant himself some form of rest. Certainly, there would be no sleeping anytime soon for him. He was far beyond the typical reactions of horror—the heart-racing blood-curdling sensations that came with the cruelest realizations in life—and now he simply sat where he was, numb inside and out. But he doubted he could soon give himself the respite of slumber. He knew he had been devastated today. No peace would come to him.

Still, time continued to pass. And so it did, on and on. It was so easy to choose not to think very much, right now.

When Logrolf opened his eyes again, it was late in the evening. The air had become cooler, his surroundings darker, and the last of the sunlight was fading behind the mountaintops above. More Azura's favored time of day than Boethiah's, Logrolf thought. That was the most lucid thing that had come to his mind all day.

He stood up slowly, with a bit of a tremor in his posture. His muscles had gone stiff. Even now, the Nord did not know what he would do next. This was no test of his faith. He would have to find some other way through life. His service was over now.

It occurred to him that since he and his fellow worshipers had failed to intervene at the Sleeping Tree Camp, Boethiah's disappearance could be taken as being his fault. But on the other hand, they had been attacked by a dragon. Logrolf knew without a doubt that had he continued westward after that, he would have joined the rest of the Queen of Shadows' followers in death.

He was thirsty. He fetched the waterskin from his pack and gave its contents a swig. Strictly speaking, the liquid inside wasn't quite water, but it would have frozen solid if it were. The icy burn down his throat put a bit of vigor back into him. That was welcome, after this day's events. He turned and looked out over the view of Eastmarch, silently taking it all in. At this hour, there was not much to see. Windhelm was somewhere down there, but he couldn't see far past the river anyway.

If he were meant to grieve right now, it wasn't working. He felt more adrift than despairing.

It also occurred to him, now, that this was a terribly ironic twist coming from Boethiah. The Daedric Prince who reveled in subversion and betrayal, vanishing without a trace and leaving her own followers to languish without her. But again, Logrolf couldn't quite lay blame for this. Boethiah had clearly not done this deliberately. Something had happened to her.

After a moment's reflection, Logrolf suddenly wondered what it was that he'd been meant to do at the Sleeping Tree Camp to begin with. Surely a small handful of mortals couldn't defy a force capable of silencing a Daedric Prince. He supposed there was little point in speculating. There wasn't exactly any way to find out.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of something on the horizon. Or not on the horizon—in the sky, very far away. It was a brilliant white trail of flame, falling down from the clouds above at a steep, diagonal angle. A shooting star. From his vantage point on the mountainside, Logrolf could see perfectly clearly as the burning light descended to the ground below. When it landed, the flame flashed brightly, then went suddenly dark. A few seconds later, the ground jolted and shook beneath his feet. And then it was over.

He was running down the steps of the shrine before his thoughts even played out to himself.

But two thoughts did come to mind, in rapid succession. Or more of a jumble, really. This was such a huge change. But unlike his realization of Boethiah's disappearance, which had stunned him to the point of losing all thought, this filled him with more thoughts than he could keep track of. This changed everything. Boethiah's memory could wait.

The first thought: Logrolf refused to believe that this shooting star was a coincidence. Whenever one of these fell from the sky, it portended some sort of magical happening. They were pieces of the stars, in a sense, which made them the gifts of Aetherius. And accordingly, they were extremely rare. Logrolf had never seen one before in his lifetime. For this to happen so soon after Boethiah's disappearance was beyond improbable, unless they were connected in some way.

The second thought: The star had fallen very close by him, on the scale of Skyrim's whole area, or even that of Eastmarch. But it had fallen from all the way up above the clouds. Everyone within a hundred miles must have seen that just now. Everyone in Windhelm, for example. Granted, they had a river to cross, but Logrolf knew he wouldn't be the only one looking for this.

As he began to run, Logrolf heard a distant, gigantic _BOOM_. Even from here, it was loud. He was reminded suddenly of what it was like to watch lightning and hear the thunder afterward. That was not at all unlike how this had sounded.

That hadn't been far away at all. Logrolf had learned to count the seconds between lightning and thunder, to judge a storm's distance. Five miles to a second, or so. He hadn't been counting, just now, but by that standard, this star couldn't have landed more than ten miles away from the Sacellum. Easily on this side of the White River.

Logrolf laid it all out in his mind's eye. He was in Eastmarch's northern stretch. The hold was dominated by a huge steaming caldera, impossible to build settlements on, all the way from Darkwater Crossing at the south to Kynesgrove at the north. The Sacellum of Boethiah was… _quite_ a distance north of that. Up here, everything was all snow and trees, like most of northern Skyrim. And Windhelm was on the far side of the river, but many of the farms outside it weren't. If everyone within, say, thirty miles just dropped what they were doing and made a dash for the shooting star's landing, there might be some fierce competition.

That was all right. Boethiah liked competition. Or _had_ liked it, now. Logrolf wasn't going to get used to that anytime soon. But the point was, he was ready for this. Maybe more so than anyone else nearby. Hopefully more so. Whatever was in that fallen star was as good as his.

He ran down stairs, and slopes of ice, and banks of snow, and stretches of rock. In just the first five minutes, he slipped and fell three times. He didn't care. A quick healing spell, and he wasn't even slowed down for it. Before long, his lungs started to burn, and his legs as well. Some more healing spells helped with that too. Restoration was a woefully underrated school of magic, truly. So much the worse for all his enemies who didn't think to use it.

And thus did he keep running, for nearly an hour straight. He was sure that without his healing magic, he wouldn't have lasted ten minutes. But his magic—his own magic, his own power—kept him going. The air grew ever so slightly warmer as he descended to a lower altitude. It mattered little. All this movement was keeping him as warm as he needed.

Evergreen trees rushed by him, shrubs and bushes and brambles and all kinds of obstacles, none of which he slowed down for. He just found the clearest path he could, and tore his way down it at a breakneck sprint. The star had landed close by enough for him to know he was going in the right direction. Besides, the landing point couldn't be that hard to find.

And it really wasn't hard to find. He knew he was getting to the right spot when he started encountering fallen trees. As in, all of the trees within sight were fallen. It was a very short forest. They'd been just knocked straight over, trunks snapped in two, or just torn up by the roots. And they'd all been knocked over in his direction. He had to weave around between them to keep going.

After a short while, the air started smelling burnt. It wasn't exactly wood smoke, like one might smell from a forest fire. In fact, there was no firelight ahead, only the growing darkness of dusk. Something just smelled like ash. Oddly, Logrolf briefly wondered if it smelled like this in Morrowind all the time. Most likely, he guessed.

Logrolf's foot punched through a layer of ice. That was odd. He looked down. There was a film of ice over the snow. He kept moving forward. With every footfall, the ice cracked away effortlessly under his weight. The ashen smell was growing stronger.

Eventually, he came up to a low, wide ridge. But not a ridge. As he climbed it, he realized he was on the lip of a crater. One moment, he was half-walking, half-clambering up the cracked, gritty surface, and the next, he was looking out over a sweeping concave dish of pulverized stone. A huge, open space, littered with great, jagged chunks of rock. It was far, far wider than he'd expected. The whole thing must have been a mile from edge to edge. He wondered if all shooting stars left such gigantic dents in the earth when they landed.

But there was still work to do. He set aside his feeling of awe for the moment, and hopped right over the crest of rock, into the crater below. Then he started running towards the center.

It looked like he was the first person here. That wasn't a surprise, when he thought about it. The Sacellum of Boethiah had been a conveniently close location to this landing. He was just lucky.

Or he was more than lucky, and he was being presented with this opportunity for a reason. But he was a priest without a god today. Luck was off his table.

The big chunks of stone became more frequent as he got lower in the dish. Some of them were the size of a head of cabbage. Others, more like the size of a handcart. A few were the size of a handcart filled with cabbages. Logrolf needed to sit down sometime and think about his choices of analogy. At least he was alone in here, so far. There was just a faint sound of the cold breeze on the air.

He was starting to feel a bit tired again. But he didn't dare to cast another healing spell. The light of the aura would have made him completely visible, plain as day, to anyone watching from the cover of the crater lip. He just kept running onward. It wouldn't take long. If this was all a mile wide, then he only had to go half a mile to get to the center.

Sure enough, it was only a few minutes' running before he found the crater's center. Presumably, this was the lowest point in the whole dish. He even stopped to take a slow look around the whole circumference of the crater, just to make sure he was really alone. It was getting very dark, but by now, the moons were lighting things up quite well. The whole crater lip did look to be the same distance from him, which made for a very strange feeling of perspective. But he did seem to have this moment to himself, and that was good.

Logrolf knew he was at the center because he'd found the biggest stone of them all. Even at a glance, he could tell it was different. It was imbedded halfway into the ground, not simply resting on top like the others. More than that, it was a perfect sphere, maybe six feet or so across. Or a perfect dome, being that it was stuck in the ground. And more than _that_ , it was clearly an artifact of some kind, because it was covered in carvings. Tiny, angular little carvings in the dark gray rock, making strange patterns all over the whole thing. If they meant anything, Logrolf couldn't tell what. It was too dim and shadowy out here to really see them anyway.

In some ineffable way, this felt like it was somehow meant to be. Slowly, he reached a hand out to the stone's surface.

"Be still, mage."

The voice came from behind him. He whirled around and cast a mage armor spell on himself in an instant, ready to fight whatever it was. But he quickly started having some doubts about that.

It was an Orc. A whole head and shoulders taller than Logrolf, wearing crude iron plate armor with a coarse gray cloak. Must've been how he'd been hiding, with that thing draped over himself. He was carrying a battle-axe, which looked like a double-headed hatchet in his hands. He had one of those horned half-face helmets on, and an impressively bushy gray beard. Looked like a bandit if Logrolf had ever seen one.

"It's not safe out here," the Nord said coolly. "This big stone ball here could have any kind of danger inside. Why don't you stand back and let me handle this, like I was going to?"

The Orc laughed mirthlessly. "Hah. Nice try. Here's what's going to happen, mage. I'm going to take you out of here, back to my camp. And then you're going to do what I say."

This was a surprisingly coherent conversation. Logrolf didn't mind keeping it going. It just gave more time for his magicka to replenish. "Wait, so… Do you even care what this thing is?"

"No, not really," the Orc shrugged. "My camp needs a healer. We have wounded. I knew the only sort of people who'd be crazy enough to come in here would be mages. You're a mage. And mages cast healing spells. That means you're coming with me."

Logrolf stared at the Orc for a couple seconds. "… Superb logic. Do you mind if I take a look at this stone ball here first?"

"I could chop your head off in the blink of an eye," the Orc growled, raising his battle-axe for a strike.

Strictly speaking, Logrolf wasn't unarmed. He did have a steel dagger on his person. But if he took it out right now, he'd probably just get laughed at. Or get his arm hacked off. So that wasn't what he used right then.

"Well, in that case," he said, "before we go, I'd like to take a second to plead my case for you." And then he put his arms out and started doing a jig, right there on the gritty rocks. He had the most immaculate footwork. "Like this! Haha!"

The Orc hesitated for a second, and squinted at him suspiciously. " _What?_ "

The moment of hesitation was all Logrolf needed. As he brought his arms forward, he casually lit up a destruction spell and shot a dual-cast lightning bolt right into the linen folds below the Orc's belt.

Naturally, the Orc made an utterly comical squealing groan and fell to his knees, dropping his axe to convulsively clutch at himself. _Now_ Logrolf used his dagger. The blade came out, and darted right in beneath the Orc's big beautiful beard. It was just one quick stab. He pulled it out just in time to keep the blood from spraying on his hand. Easy as could be. These bandits just never learned.

With that out of the way, he wiped his dagger off on the fallen Orc's cloak, sheathed it once again, and went back to the core of the shooting star. Far more engaging, he thought.

It was remarkable how quickly he'd been able to resume his daily way of life without Boethiah there to guide him. All it'd taken was this little gift from the skies. Really, it seemed like any goal would do, if it were suitably ambitious and deadly. Boethiah probably would have liked that.

Logrolf wasn't sure how to work with this artifact. So for lack of a better first option, he walked up to it and laid his fingertips on the stone. All he wanted to do was to get a feel for it, in a literal sense. Sometimes magic artifacts had qualities to them that only arose upon touch. The Ebony Mail certainly had.

Strangely, the stone didn't feel cold to his skin. It didn't feel rough, or smooth, or anything in between. It felt like he wasn't quite touching it after all. But as he took in the feeling, a bright blue light began to spread out over the stone, from where his fingertips met it. An inner light, shining out through the cracks of the engraved runes, following shapes and paths in unbroken lines. And, Logrolf realized, at the same time, that light was spreading within him.

He could see now. He could see everything. There were no words to describe what he was seeing. It was greater than anything he had seen before. Boethiah's myths were nothing in comparison. He'd been wallowing in the shallows of a stagnant pond, and this was the azure expanse of the sea.

Logrolf couldn't help but laugh out loud. What an evening this had become.


	7. Zaryth 2

Fredas, 10:10 AM, 8th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Blackreach

As Zaryth pushed open the doors beyond the lift exit, she found herself making a last-minute—or last-second—preparation for analysis of what lay ahead. This would be a great opportunity to learn, and she didn't want to waste a moment of her time. Accordingly, it would be vital to approach the contents of Blackreach with a clear, methodical sense of study.

Then the doors swung open, revealing the other side for view. Zaryth's entire thought process was replaced with a blank, stunned silence.

Blackreach was vast. The first thing that struck her was the sheer scale. She had never seen a ceiling that vaulted so high. And if there was a far side to this place, she could not see it. The arching walls and columns of natural rock receded into the distance, until they disappeared into the faint cyan fog. And the entire ceiling of this whole vast expanse was covered in an atlas of tiny, bluish lights, like a moonless night sky beneath the snowy ground above.

There were Dwemer structures here. The doors opened out onto a wide stone platform, illuminated by magelight, with stairs descending sideways to a perfectly natural-looking expanse of soil and rock below. It was paved in places by Dwemer brick roads, rough with age, and running between all manner of buildings. The nearest was a low, wide, rectangular structure, a short distance straight ahead. A massive white glow was emanating from behind it, as well as a faint, high ringing noise.

But none of these things were the most prominent in Zaryth's eyes. The most prominent were the mushrooms. She was well familiar with glowing mushrooms as they appeared in nature. These were tens, or hundreds, of times larger. Massive, towering things, metallic cyan in color, glowing with inner fluorescence. Freestanding on tall spindly stalks, with hollow, dome-like caps adorned with long, thin hanging tendrils all around the edges. And they were everywhere. Some, far off in the distance, looked as massive as entire buildings.

Her sense of analysis had nothing for this. Nothing. She walked forwards slowly, stepping out into the cavern with a strange lack of sensation. What she was looking at now had no basis in anything she had learned yet. It was a Dwemer settlement, that much was clear, but it was… Somehow, it was also completely alien.

The doors closed behind her. Eventually, Thorald appeared by her side, smiling brightly. "Ready to proceed?"

Zaryth made a vague sound with her voice. It was too much effort to make sense of language right now.

Thorald beckoned for her to follow, then started down the stairs and out onto the road. His path was taking him to the right, towards the other buildings nearby. As Zaryth followed, she glanced behind herself, and got a look at what was behind the rectangular structure. There was a whole rectangular field leveled out in the soil, and it was covered in nirnroots. Their collective glow was nearly blinding. After a moment, she realized that the nirnroots were all colored red. A deep, dark red.

When she turned ahead again, Thorald had a knowing look on his face. "Crimson nirnroots," he said. "They only grow down here. I'm told they grow far more easily than the regular sort ever do."

"Are, are, are…" Zaryth struggled for words. "Are … they alchemically distinct from the, uh… regular… variety? Of nirnroot, that is?"

Thorald shrugged. "So far as I've heard, they're identical. They make for handy invisibility potions, I'll say that much."

Zaryth's mind was lagging behind. There was too much to take in all at once. "But… Who planted those all in one place?"

"The Dragonborn, I think. J'zargo runs that garden now." Thorald smiled back over his shoulder. "Nice fellow. Probably working on some potions in there, at the moment."

The Dragonborn, as a name, was familiar to Zaryth. The Nord warrior had rather lost her after that. "Who?"

"J'zargo? Uh… Young Khajiit mage from Winterhold. He was the Dragonborn's… ah… apprentice, until the Dragonborn left, that is."

"What? Where is he now?"

Thorald shrugged again. "Somewhere far away from here, I suppose."

Zaryth didn't have time to contemplate that remark. As she looked back ahead, she saw a… thing, in the distance, beyond some of the other buildings. A large Dwemer metal thing. It appeared rather like a gigantic egg, symmetrical on both sides. High above the ground, accessible by stairway, hanging from two parallel cables on forked support columns, with a great rectangular opening in its side. The cables continued off into the distance on the left, held up by more columns every so often. It looked like no Dwemer contraption she had seen before.

Thorald must have seen where she was looking, because he said, "That's the shuttle. It'll take us to the Silent City. That's where we'll be going now."

The Silent City. Zaryth's mind was continuing to lag, but it wouldn't have helped here. "To the what?"

"Uh… The central city in Blackreach. This whole place is a three-armed cave, and the Silent City is where the arms all meet." Thorald kept talking as he went. He was leading Zaryth right to the shuttle. "There are outposts beneath the three surface cities, like this one, but it's hundreds of miles to the Silent City from here. It's all the way over in Hjaalmarch."

Hjaalmarch. That was on the far side of the Pale. Blackreach, it seemed, spanned across three of Skyrim's nine holds.

Thorald continued: "Anyway, the shuttle can take us there in about half an hour."

Zaryth's walking pace faltered. She turned and looked at the Nord next to her. She simply looked. " _What?_ "

"I've heard that it runs faster than a dragon can fly."

That was hard to believe. Yet Thorald was already climbing the stairs to this shuttle machine, so Zaryth had nothing to do but follow.

Up close, it became clear that the shuttle was meant for very high-speed transportation. It was hanging from the cables by four grooved wheels, attached to the shuttle by suspended struts. Both the left and right ends of the shuttle were adorned with green glassy windows, and the casing of the pod itself was made of multiple metal plates, but they all fit together with flush surfaces. The only interruptions were the slight bumps of the rivets holding the pieces together. The design sensibility of this machine reminded Zaryth of the aerodynamics of an arrow.

The open door allowed her to get a good view of the inside as well. It was entirely made of Dwemer metal in there, besides the windows, at least. There were metal benches running along the walls, with handles above them. Zaryth estimated it had room for fifteen or twenty people. There was also a lever, mounted on the ceiling, its handle pointing straight down. Thankfully, she wasn't tall enough to risk bumping her head on it.

And she was meant to climb into this machine, and ride it all the way to Hjaalmarch, over the course of half an hour. No one had told her that Blackreach would contain inventions such as this. She realized that she had started to tremble a little bit. Spectacular sights were one thing, but this… This was different.

Thorald helped her inside, in any case, and then pulled the lever in the left direction. The door slid shut behind them, and the noise of Blackreach suddenly became very muted.

"You might want to sit over there," the Nord said, pointing at the left end of the tubular cabin.

Zaryth took a look, and almost fell to her knees from the view alone. The windows were there—really more like one window, with a few curved panes separated by thin metal bars—and they afforded a perfect view of what was outside. Namely, the support columns. They, and the cables above, all extended far into the distance, converging together only to disappear in the fog. It looked like a very strange sort of tunnel.

But still, she hurried over and sat down, and the moment she did, the floor lurched forward beneath her. She had to lean back onto her palms to keep from landing flat on her back. The shuttle was moving now, and accelerating, quickly. Unbelievably quickly. This was… actually, this was incredible! She sat back up and stared out the window, unable to contain her grin. They were just flying along, smooth as could be. Diving right into the endless tunnel ahead, leaving the Alftand outpost far behind. There was a whole vast uninhabited cavern out here, and she wanted to see it all.

Every time the shuttle passed over a column, a faint _whoosh_ sound ran through the cabin. But otherwise, it was almost totally quiet. The wind must have been nearly deafening, but for the windows, which were clearly perfectly airtight.

The view out here was incredible. A paved road ran along the ground beside the columns, but no other structures were out here. It was simply open uninhabited cavern. There were rocky outcrops made of bright fluorescent bluish stone, whose nature Zaryth could only guess at. There were placid lakes and roaring rapids and distant waterfalls, with strange, brilliant fungal spires reaching up from the water high into the air. Other, smaller spires were hanging from the ceiling. She might have mistaken them for particularly slender and luminous stalagmites and stalactites, but they were swaying gently in place, like living matter would. She'd never seen anything of their like before.

And then there were the mushrooms. Some of the mushrooms in the distance looked as tall as mountains, completely dwarfing the ones around them. Notably, these ones were a more bluish tone than the others' cyan, and they seemed to have smaller, secondary caps branching off their stalks. It was all so wondrous. Zaryth had to restrain herself from pressing her fingers to the glass. Those blue mushrooms were giving her ideas.

If only Divayth Fyr had been here to see this. A long time ago, Zaryth had studied many mysterious and arcane secrets under his guidance, but none of it had ever been like what lay outside this metal pod.

"No one's figured out why the shuttles run on flexible cables," Thorald said, after a minute or so of near-silent travel. "There are all kinds of theories. It's strange for them to be flexible, when they're drawn as tight as solid rails. Personally, I think they're a bit fragile."

Zaryth replied without looking, "Oh, that's obvious, the cables are designed to distort by fractions of an inch to compensate for minute tectonic shifts in the cave floor over the centuries. With distances of this scale, that's a necessity."

A few seconds went by. Then Thorald said, "Oh. All right, then."

Some length of time passed in silence. Zaryth had lost count of the columns long since. She had shifted her attention to simply taking in the sights of Blackreach as they came. The only indicator of change, eventually, was when a hazy yellow-orange light began to shine through the fog ahead. As it sharpened into a solid circle, the shuttle began to slow down, and buildings began to come into view. Far more buildings than had been back below Alftand. This was the Silent City, she supposed. They were coming to their destination.

The circle turned out to be a spherical orb, an ornate metal-framed gigantic light hanging from the ceiling on a slender cable. It was directly over the largest building in this whole sprawling setup, a high-walled structure with a huge staircase leading up to its entrance. Everything nearby was lit up with its glow. Zaryth supposed this made sense. The Dwemer hadn't had much time to go take in any actual sunlight.

Soon enough, the shuttle came to a halt, having reached the end of its cables' length. Its door slid open again, and another platform awaited outside. Immediately, the ambient sounds of Blackreach entered the cabin once again. This time, Zaryth could hear the faint noise of people going about their business. The Silent City did not live up to its name.

"I have to say," Thorald grunted, as he pushed himself off his bench and started out the door, "it is good to have a scholar like yourself with us."

Zaryth slowly got back onto her feet—her legs were feeling a little wobbly—and stepped out onto the platform as well. Ordinarily, she might have had quite a bit to say in response to that. But at the moment, all she managed was an absent-sounding, "Thank you."

Thorald went on as he descended the staircase. He still had his helmet under his arm, as it'd been this entire time. "I mean it, though. We have a workshop in the city. Or at least that's what we've been calling it. It's one building with… ten separate machines inside. Great big machines, all of them. And we've only been able to figure out what _one_ of them even does."

That was enough to rekindle Zaryth's academic interest. She brightened considerably as she followed the Nord on down. "Well, I'd be very interested to see what your, ah… 'workshop' has to offer, then. That sounds quite exciting! I assume that at least some of you—not yourself, but perhaps the Dragonborn in his time—have entered this city with some modicum of knowledge of Dwemer machinery, so the notion of any devices of entirely unknown function is a fascinating opportunity. Even more so that there would be ten such devices all in one building! What function does your one identified machine perform, by chance?"

"We've been calling it the mimic machine," Thorald said. "Two compartments. Put an item in one, the machine scans it, then uses a reserve of molten dwarven metal to build a metal replica in the other. Perfect precision. We used it to make the dwarven metal parts of our gear, with clay sculptures as templates. I saw it build a helmet in a span of minutes."

They were walking through the city now, towards the huge building with the light above it. A few people were out on the streets, not in armor, only regular worker clothes. They were too far away to bother with acknowledging the two of them. But Zaryth wasn't paying her surroundings much attention now. She turned to Thorald and stared at him, still walking all the while. "You do realize the implications of such a machine, yes?"

Thorald looked back at her, one eyebrow raised. "Thaaat… the only thing keeping Skyrim's blacksmiths in business is the finiteness of our supply of dwarven metal?"

"That the Dwemer could have used such a machine to assemble precision machinery at an unsurpassed rate, of course. They could have done anything with it. Tools, weapons, automaton parts, it's a wonder the Silent City didn't conquer all of Skyrim with that sort of power. Simply from that one machine alone."

"Well, it does seem to have three entire cities at its fingertips," Thorald said. "Maybe they used it to make all that cable for the shuttles."

Zaryth paused for a moment, then nodded. "That seems likely. So much wire would have been prohibitively time-consuming to draw out by hand."

A stone's throw ahead of them, a group of five armored figures walked out onto the street, from one of the smaller side paths. They looked exactly like Thorald did with his helmet on, all striding along in pace with each other. Zaryth swallowed involuntarily. They looked like they were on some sort of deadly mission just by crossing the street.

But Thorald just gave them a friendly wave, and they must have noticed, because a couple of them waved back. It was a strange sight to see these walking armored terrors with amiable body language.

Zaryth asked quietly, "Who are they?"

"I don't even know," Thorald said. "A squad. I can't read their number from here. Anything between 16 and 30, I'd think, except for 29."

That last part made sense enough. Thorald himself was marked for Squad 29. If these squads had five members, then that one couldn't have been his. "What about the first fifteen, then? Off doing some deadly thing or other?"

"Heh, something like that," Thorald grinned. "Come on. Let's get up into the debate hall."

By the time they got up to the side path the squad had come from, all five of them had disappeared down the other way. They'd gone someplace completely different. There was nothing to do but proceed up the stairway to the now-looming central building. The debate hall, evidently.

Thorald led the way up the steps. As usual for Dwemer stairways, there weren't any railings. Presumably, they had relied on their heavy armor to protect them in the event of a fall. "The Black Machine actually used to live and sleep here," he said. "We had a whole bunch of tents in the courtyard, right under the sun-orb. Thankfully, we've gotten some proper accommodations since then."

Normally, Zaryth's curiosity led her only to the mysteries of archaeology. And Blackreach was by far the most overwhelming source of mystery she had ever seen. But strangely, she found herself feeling also a bit curious about the people living down here. They must have all had such strange, interesting lives. A pity that none of them had been as equipped as her to study their surroundings, but better late than never, she supposed. "So, how many people live down here?"

"About six hundred," Thorald said. "The Black Machine, and its support staff, and some of the survivors from the attack on Alftand. Only the people who need to be here."

Six hundred. That was a terribly low number. This place could have housed so, so many more. Which led the Dunmer straight to another thought: "Shouldn't this place be crawling with Falmer?"

Thorald shook his head. He replied without looking back. "No, the Dragonborn put a frenzy poison in the water supply. Then he turned on all the automatons in the Silent City to do the rest. That was the first time he was here, months and months ago. The—the water's perfectly safe to drink now."

Zaryth could respect that. Frenzy was a very effective illusion effect, and alchemy simulated it well enough. The bit about the automatons was a shame. It would have been far better to study them. But, no sense in mourning over things long past. "Sounds like the Dragonborn is quite the alchemist," she said.

"Hah! Yes, he is. He set quite the standard for us all. J'zargo's been eagerly following in his footsteps."

"Making a lot of potions, then?" Zaryth wasn't entirely paying attention to her own question. She was still thinking about the automatons. That was what they were called, in Skyrim—the Dwemer's endless legion of mechanical servants and soldiers. They all had a propensity to be alarmingly lethal, down to the last worker, but Zaryth so enjoyed studying them. Even from city to city, there were subtle differences in their designs. The ones in the Silent City would have been simply captivating.

But Thorald answered her question like any other. "That, and poisons, and other things. He's been working on this strange explosive stuff. Fire salts, and charcoal, and… I think dwarven oil? I don't know. It makes a mage's fireball look like the glow of a nice cozy hearth."

They were at the top of the stairs now. There was a low, outer dirt-floored area, and then an inner courtyard of flat, even stone slabs. Sure enough, the sun-orb hung directly above the latter. It looked utterly massive up close. All around the courtyard's perimeter, but within the outer area, was a clustered collection of buildings and towers, some with clearly visible entrances, some without. Thorald led her through the courtyard towards the biggest of the buildings. No one else was out here.

"The Jarl will likely have a few questions for you," Thorald said. "Just… Try and be polite, all right? Not everyone is as patient as me."

Zaryth scoffed. "Yes, yes. I think the word you want is 'intelligent'."

Thorald turned around and gave her an incredulous smile. "Was that a _compliment_ just now?"

"You'd be well-advised to count your blessings," Zaryth replied airily, edging past Thorald to open the doors herself.

The room inside looked a great deal like many inner keeps that Zaryth had seen. There was a staircase down to a wide, open space below, ringed by a low balcony. A few long stone tables had been set up within the space, obviously as a later addition. At the far end of the room was a staircase back up to a throne, as per usual. But nobody was sitting in it. Instead, a bare-headed Nord and a slender Bosmer were standing over a table on the balcony nearby, whispering in hushed tones over a messy array of papers. If they'd been wearing proper robes instead of that drab commoner clothing, they would've looked like a couple of mages discussing ancient lore.

But at the sound of the doors opening, both of them turned around to look right at her. The Nord stepped forward and called out, "Welcome to the debate hall, mage!"

Was this supposed to be the Jarl? He wasn't wearing even a single garment to distinguish his station. Were the Nords down here too immersed in their bizarre alien life to care about such social necessities? Zaryth dismissed the thought and walked down the stairs slowly. "Thank you very much," she called back, warily. "To whom do I have the proverbial pleasure of speaking?"

Rather than sit down in the throne up there, the Nord descended the far staircase at the same pace as Zaryth. That Bosmer fellow trailed after him at a distance. "Noster Eagle-Eye, Jarl of Blackreach," the Nord said, at a more reasonable volume once he was within range. "I presume Thorald found you on his Thalmor-hunting mission. What's your name?"

"Zaryth Velani," the Dunmer replied smoothly. She took a breath in, about to add that she was from House Telvanni, but then stopped. That name meant nothing down here. Instead, she switched to a different topic. "Your Nord soldier here found me as I was leaving Saarthal. I'm a scholar by trade. If any of you have bothered to collect any books about the Dwemer, it's likely that at least a few were written by me."

Jarl Noster gave Zaryth a brief look over. "Well, if you're here with Thorald, that means Savos already screened you. And you've got a huge amount of magicka in you, so you're plainly _some_ kind of mage. So, welcome to Blackreach, Zaryth. You're a scholar who specializes in Dwemer lore, and now you're here. What do you plan to do next?"

"Well, obviously, I'll want to start my research immediately. Until I can make myself a more suitable workspace, I'll need one of the buildings here, preferably in the outskirts of the city, and from there I'll draft a list of plans for you and your steward there to review, I do actually understand the importance of safety in magical research—" Zaryth stopped, then squinted at the Nord. "Wait, how do you know how much magicka I have?"

"I have a name, you know," said the Bosmer, frowning indignantly.

"His name's Lenve," Noster added without breaking eye contact with Zaryth. "I used to be blind in one eye. But one time, a few months ago, a Psijic monk appeared in my room in the middle of the night, and restored my eye to working order. And now it can see magical auras, at basically any range. Your whole body looks bright blue to that eye. You're just full of magicka right now. So I do believe you're a powerful mage, yes. We'll get you the supplies you need. Just pick a vacant building and we'll do the rest, all right?"

Zaryth let out a slow sigh under her breath. Did everyone here have some sort of bizarre magical background? Maybe that had to do with their all ending up in Blackreach, of all places.

The Bosmer steward, Lenve, nudged Noster's shoulder. "Aren't you going to let her see everyone?"

Noster snorted. "Yeah. Sure. All right. Zaryth, would you like to meet everyone here? All of the soldiers and workers and such? Just—just answer honestly."

"Uh…" Zaryth scratched at the back of her neck. This felt like a trick question. But ultimately, she just shrugged. "If… they help me with my work, perhaps? I'm not in the habit of spending my time on everyone nearby who happens to have a pulse."

"Yeah, see, there you go," Noster said, glancing over his shoulder at Lenve. Then he turned back to Zaryth with a polite smile. "Like I said, just pick a building. And just let us know what you need. But if that's all, Lenve and I need to plan an entire hold's economy, so we should really get back to that."

"I think we're all right," Thorald cut in. He'd been standing right behind Zaryth's shoulder this whole time. Somehow, she hadn't heard him. "I just wanted to check in with you before we moved forward. Oh, by the way, any word from Kamian?"

Noster shook his head, but the look on his face was amiable enough. "If you stick around, you'll probably be the first to know when he gets back."

"Sounds good. I'll see you around." Thorald turned around and started up the stairway. "Oh, good day, Helvard."

Zaryth turned around. Her heart promptly jumped into her throat. There was a big, muscular man standing there by the door, clad in gleaming steel armor, with an utterly massive sword slung on his back. The man must've been standing aside, in the shadows, when Zaryth had first entered. He wasn't wearing a helmet, and she could see he had oddly close-cropped hair for a Nord. And a beard, and… a stripe of red war paint across his eyes. That was new.

But this Helvard fellow just smiled politely and gave Thorald a nod. "Staying safe, I hope?"

Thorald laughed. "Something of the sort, maybe!" And then he was going back up the stairs, and there was little to do but follow him.

Back out in the courtyard, Zaryth was trying to regain her senses. That had been a strange experience even by this place's standards. "Who… Who was that?"

"Oh, Helvard?" Thorald glanced back at the doors. "Noster's housecarl. Used to be sworn to that idiot Jarl down in Falkreath, but he got kicked out for some pointless reason, so… That worked out well for them. He and Noster are so nice together."

Zaryth gathered that there might have been more to that relationship than one of a Jarl and his sworn sword. But that wasn't important. She had a day to move on with. Her first day in Blackreach, and she was off to a thrilling start.

She turned away from Thorald, towards the rest of the debate hall, and walked slowly out into the middle of the courtyard. Her shadow in the orange light was right beneath her feet. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. The air smelled like any other deep cave, or any other Dwemer ruin, but… Different. It was warm and strangely soft to her touch. She wondered what it would be like for this to smell like home.

Then, as she exhaled, the Dunmer opened her eyes and looked around herself. The exits to the debate hall weren't far away. Blackreach, the greatest ruin of the Dwemer civilization, somehow forgotten for so long, was in every direction. The cavern ceiling high above glittered with the same blue-white starlight as she saw beneath Alftand. Directly over her head, the sun-orb's metal frame converged into a solid base, a dark star at the center of the glowing disc. That was how it looked from this angle, at least. It was just mesmerizing.

After a little bit, she looked back down. Thorald Gray-Mane was standing next to her, watching with that patient look he always had on. It was hard to take for granted. He'd gotten her from her predicament in Saarthal all the way to here, and, Zaryth realized now, he'd stayed at her side this whole time. Surely, that had to mean something for his role in the grand scheme of things. Or at least his role in Zaryth's own case.

"You've given me a great opportunity, Thorald," she said, choosing her words slowly and carefully. This wasn't the kind of thing she'd want to misspeak for. "This is going to mean … unprecedented things, for my research. You've contributed more to the cause of scholarly study of the Dwemer than all the actual so-called scholars in your race combined. I just… I wanted you to be aware of that."

"Thank you," Thorald replied, his expression not wavering for a second. "Now, would you like to see about choosing that building of yours?"


	8. Aicantar 2

Middas, 8:49 PM, 6th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Markarth

It was bad to be out in the streets of Markarth past sundown. Aicantar knew that. He knew it so acutely that every time he came out here, he found himself trying to estimate the odds that he'd be grabbed by the guards and never be seen again. Past sundown, he was, what, twice, three times as likely to have that happen to him? The guards loved getting to work in the dark. People weren't ready for them then.

Being an Altmer wasn't going to protect him, either. The Thalmor talked about elven supremacy, but what they really meant was Thalmor supremacy. So while the locals disliked Aicantar for his race, the Aldmeri guards disliked him for not being one of them. But unlike the locals, the guards weren't afraid of his ability to cast a few spells.

And if he got grabbed by the guards, he _would_ never be seen again. The Hag's Cure was still empty, last he'd seen. Bothela and Muiri were still missing. And someone had taken the gold he'd left. Calcelmo was singularly vexed about his alchemy reagents running dry, not that anyone would hear his complaints.

But he did have to be out here, at this time of day. The luna moths didn't exactly come out while the sun was up. They were around the city, sometimes. Most of the locals just ignored them. It wasn't like they were good for eating.

On the other hand, their wings _were_ good for potions, and his uncle had wanted more alchemy reagents. So now Aicantar was strolling through the streets, with a basket in his hand, full of moth wings. And by full of moth wings, he meant there were six moth wings in it. He'd been out here for an hour. Not much luck so far.

Every time he saw one of the silvery creatures floating through the air, he flashed a jet of frost magic at it, and watched it land stiffly on the ground. This was what Aicantar was doing with his arcane talent. Freezing luna moths to collect their wings for his uncle. While risking his life by being out here at night.

As he was going out and doing this, Aicantar realized, with more than a little poignancy, that in a way, he'd been reduced to the same state as the rest of the people of Markarth. Scavenging in the streets for the things he needed, because there weren't any better options left for him. The Thalmor were really taking everything. This felt like it couldn't go on much longer.

By the time he found the fourth moth—it was perched on someone's windowsill, not difficult to freeze—The Altmer was starting to put himself at risk of getting lost. These streets were far harder to navigate at night. He was out in the middle of the townhouses somewhere. Not where he wanted to be. No one else was walking out here, for fear of being accosted by the guards. No one besides the guards themselves, at least.

Aicantar brushed the wings off the frozen moth's body and let them fall into the basket. Then he looked up. Two guards were coming up the street towards him. One of them was holding a torch. The other was saying something inaudible and pointing a finger straight at him.

It was like a stabbing feeling in his chest. Like the point had been for some kind of sickening destruction spell. The guards had just singled him out. Maybe they'd seen him casting the frostbite spell just now. Or maybe they were just interested in some pointy-eared sport. Aicantar couldn't stay here. He had to move.

He turned around and started walking away, back towards one of the bigger roads, where there was more light. He could always pretend that he hadn't seen the guard pointing at him. If they knew he was deliberately fleeing them, it'd just make them angry.

The bigger road was mostly empty too. Markarth's streets were never busy at night, which Aicantar had always sort of liked. Right now, they just made him feel way too exposed. He looked left, up towards Understone Keep, then right, down towards the gates. Maybe there was a shop nearby he could duck into, to hide. Or, no, the shops were all closed. Maybe there was a tavern. An inn, or something. Anything.

Another pair of guards was coming up the street from below. They hadn't seen him yet. He turned left, away from them, and started up towards the keep.

Aicantar was very aware of himself right now. His heart rate was climbing, quickly. He was having to force himself to breathe normally, and to stay at a walking pace. The guards were right behind him. He knew it. He just knew it. But he couldn't look over his shoulder, because then they'd know he was evading them.

Understone Keep was too far away. Maybe if he made it to the gates, he could take refuge in there. But it was maybe three minutes' walk from here, and he doubted he had even one minute to spare. The guards were going to gain on him, and then stop him, and… His uncle was going to be so annoyed when he never came back with those moth wings.

He could hear footsteps on the stone behind him. His body was starting to tremble. He was trembling now. But he swallowed it and kept moving. It didn't matter. He wasn't going to look. He wouldn't give them the pleasure of making him look.

His eyes remained fixed on the silhouette of Understone Keep ahead. He could see its outline, the outline of its entrance and the balcony above, set into the solid mountainside. It felt so far away. He'd walked this path up to the keep thousands of times before. Strange, to think that the last time was right this second.

"Hold there, Altmer," a voice said, right behind him. That was it, then.

Aicantar stopped. But he didn't turn to look. He stayed looking at Understone Keep. His home for fifteen years. If only it'd been a little closer by.

It was because Aicantar didn't turn around that he saw what happened next. In his peripheral vision, off to the right, there was a huge, fiery orange flash. He looked just in time to see another one follow it directly above, and another after, all in the span of less than a second. It was the Aldmeri garrison, the one they'd built for themselves, up near the keep. Each story of the building had just successively burst wide open in flames.

Half a second later, the noise hit him. A roaring, thundering wave of sound and pressure, one that hit so hard that he staggered and fell against the building beside him. Three huge, rolling explosions, all in rapid succession. His eardrums felt about ready to burst in his skull. His head wasn't feeling right.

Two golden-armored figures sprinted past Aicantar, straight up the street. The guards. The ones who had just been about to grab him. They had left.

Aicantar cast a healing spell on himself out of reflex. It seemed to help with his head. He was actually very close by the garrison, compared to most of Markarth. That blast of sound had hit him hard. He blinked a couple times and took another look at the building. Fire was coming out it in huge, smoking plumes. Out, through all the gaps where the walls had been. The explosions had blown the outer walls completely open.

A moment later, there was a much longer, louder noise. A crashing, grinding sound, one of hard and heavy objects slamming into each other. The shape of the flames shuddered and sagged, and began to fall downwards. Aicantar didn't understand what he was looking at. He didn't _believe_ what he was looking at. But he still realized, all the same, that he was watching the garrison collapse.

It came down in a huge cloud of dust. The flames fell out of view, going dark once again, as the whole structure fell in on itself, snapping and crushing its own stonework with ear-splitting loudness the whole way. And then the only thing left was the dust, spreading through the air, down the streets, all thick and gray. Aicantar could see that much even from here, even in the night's darkness.

Everything felt sluggish. The Altmer remembered that he was supposed to be trying to breathe normally. He looked around, tried to take in what was happening. It was pandemonium. People were running through the streets. Mostly the guards, towards the garrison's wreckage. The noise of the building caving in had been replaced by the sound of people screaming. Elves screaming. Shouting frantically to each other, saying things Aicantar didn't understand.

He tried to think. Three explosions, one after another, and they'd brought the entire garrison down. That wasn't what an accident looked like. Markarth was under attack. But there weren't any dragons in the sky, and there weren't any legionnaires in the streets. Aicantar had no idea who this was.

Slowly, he began to stumble his way up towards Understone Keep. His uncle. He had to get back to his uncle. They'd be safer together, he knew it. But it was so far away. Nothing made sense right now. Why did it feel so far away?

As he made his way up the street, a new sound emerged. Aicantar had never heard it before in his life, but he knew it all the same. It was the sound of battle. People were shouting in anger, screaming in pain, making big loud noises. He was starting to hear the sizzling cracking sound of lightning bolts being launched. A firestorm spell flared up somewhere ahead of him, past a few more guards, filling the street with brilliant orange light. One of the guards might have even cast it, he hadn't seen. But he could feel the heat on him even from here.

And as he watched, a shape emerged from the bursting flame. A black silhouette, too thick and angular to be a person, but… Clearly shaped like one. It didn't even react to the swirling inferno around it. And as the magical flames faded away, it methodically walked into the path of the running guards, and deftly cut them down with a long dark blade.

No. Aicantar was not going up to that thing. He turned and ran the other way, back down the streets. Back towards the gates. He didn't even know. Anywhere but near the thing he'd just seen.

More guards were running up the street, from the houses below. Or, these ones weren't even guards. They were proper soldiers, wearing thick gilded armor. A few of them even wore the armor with the malachite glass on it. There were wizards, too. The ones in the robes. They were all coming out from the houses they'd quartered in, running up to see what was going on. No one seemed to be in charge. They were just a mob of gold and green and black, coming up the street in a big scattered mess.

And Aicantar was running into their way. A few ran past him. One ran straight _into_ him, colliding with his chest. It was like being hit with a giant metal hammer. Aicantar fell back on the hard stone and rolled onto his side, gasping for breath, expecting to be set upon for hitting the soldier… but nothing happened. The soldier just ignored him, got up and kept running.

If he stayed here, he was going to get trampled to death. He rolled to his side, dodging another soldier's footfalls—didn't they even care that there was a person on the ground in their way?—before glancing up and down the street. There was an intersection to a smaller side street, basically an alley, not ten feet away. The closest hiding place he could see. He hauled himself up to his feet, sort of, and half-stumbled half-crawled out of the way.

What was even going on? Aicantar couldn't believe this. All he'd come out here to do was catch some moths. He slumped against the stone wall of the alley, and looked down at his hands. They were shaking. And they were empty. He'd dropped his basket at some point. For some reason, all he could think was that Calcelmo was not going to be happy about that.

There was a noise off to his right. The far end of the alley. He looked up. Markarth's alleys were well-lit enough that he could see the whole thing. A soldier had just fallen face-first on the ground right at the alley exit. A feathered shaft was sticking out between the soldier's shoulder blades. People were screaming, out there. Something was happening.

He couldn't run, he couldn't hide. None of this made sense.

The Altmer pushed himself back onto his feet, and ran again. Back across the street. The sounds of battle were getting louder. It was becoming a din. A nonstop roar in his ears, of metal clashing and people fighting, and people losing. For a moment, he stopped in the middle of the street and looked around, and realized there were corpses strewn all over it. Most of the soldiers were still running, but… they weren't running towards the garrison anymore. They were just going every which way. And they were dying. Some of them, at least. All Aicantar could think of was that armored monstrosity he'd seen. There must have been more than one. They were the ones doing this. But he wasn't seeing any of them now.

There was another alley, on the far side of the street. He ran into it, and crouched down against a wall, trying to make himself small. This was the fourth direction he'd tried to run in. If this didn't work, he'd… Actually, he didn't know what he'd do. Probably just die. At least this alley was empty.

But he had to keep moving, and so he pushed himself up and started running for the far end of this alley. It was open, like the last one. It led out to another street.

A silhouette blocked the way ahead of him. No, three silhouettes. Three Aldmeri soldiers. Two in the black uniforms their wizards wore, and one in the regular armor. They were practically shoving each other over to get into the alley. And when they saw him, the one in gold pointed and shouted, "GET HIM!"

Get him? What? Aicantar hadn't even done anything! Just out of sheer reflex, he managed to put up a ward just in time to block a firebolt from one of the wizards. The orange flame flashed all in front of him. It must have come within a quarter-second of reaction time away from scorching the whole front of his body. Then another firebolt hit, and his ward shattered. He staggered back onto one knee. His magicka had not held up to that. He was just a scholar, he wasn't supposed to be fighting. He didn't understand why they were attacking him. But he couldn't fight back.

The soldiers were advancing quickly. And the wizards were charging up more fire spells. Bigger ones.

A huge, black-and-gold shape filled Aicantar's vision, completely out of nowhere. The fire spells roared and burst against it, seemingly harmlessly. It was one of the armored things, Aicantar realized. It'd just jumped down from the roof or something, and blocked the spells with its own armor. What was it doing?

There was a split second, as the fire was dissipating, when Aicantar and the armored thing were just looking at one another, silently. They were just a few feet apart from each other. This might've been a person in armor, but it seemed to be nothing but metal. There was a helmet, with a T-slit visor, and a golden gear-shaped icon on the thing's chest. And numbers, on the thing's shoulders. _12_ _· 4_ , it said.

When the three soldiers saw the figure there, they all froze in place, unsure what to do. Then the one in gold took out a sword, shrieked furiously, and ran at the thing with her sword held aloft. The armored figure turned and walked away from Aicantar, casually pulling out a sword of its own. A showdown, in a back alley in Markarth. That was what this was.

Then the Aldmeri soldier brought the sword down for an overhead swing, and got both her hands sliced off instead. They both landed on the ground next to her blade. She didn't even have time to scream before the armored figure brought its swing back around to slash her belly open. That sword went through the gilded armor like it was made of so much cotton. As the figure walked past the falling, bleeding corpse, Aicantar realized that it hadn't even broken its stride.

The two wizards looked about ready to break and run. The armored figure ran up to them as they started to turn away, and managed to strike one in the back of the thigh. Then, as the wizard fell to his knees, the figure grabbed his face with its free hand, and opened his throat with its sword. Aicantar saw the whole thing, albeit from behind. It looked messy as Oblivion. But methodical. And he didn't get any more chance to think about it, because the figure then ran off in pursuit of the second wizard. Just like that, he was alone in here.

The Altmer wasn't sure what had just happened. But he felt sick. He felt very sick. He… He couldn't keep running. He couldn't. He just shut his eyes tight, fell back to sit on the ground, and put his hands over his head. It was all he could do. His heart was pounding, his breath was failing him, he was a hairsbreadth from losing the contents of his stomach. This was all too much. It was lunacy. He didn't know what to think.

This time, at least, no one bothered him. No one bothered him, and it stayed that way. He lost track of time, sitting there on the stone. The noises of battle were still going, but they eventually waned as the minutes dragged on. After a while, they'd stopped, replaced by more general sounds of commotion. Aicantar didn't want to get up. He had his fingers on top of each other on his hood, he was looking at his own lap, he was fine staying this way. If the Thalmor wanted to kill him now, he didn't think he'd have it in him to run anymore.

It was a while before anyone came to him. Or, rather, before anyone spoke to him. It was a Nordic voice, just ten feet or so to his right. "Hey. Mage. You all right?"

Aicantar looked up. His eyes were dry and hurting. He couldn't see who it was, in this light. So he blinked hard for a couple seconds, then tried again. It was a soldier. Not just a soldier, a legionnaire. A member of the Imperial Legion. Normally, Aicantar might've thought that his eyes were playing tricks on him, but tonight, he could accept this well enough. The man was wearing a legionnaire's uniform. That meant the Legion was back in Markarth. Which did nothing to explain the armored things from earlier.

The legionnaire said, "Can you understand me?"

Aicantar nodded slowly. He couldn't quite get to his feet right now. He felt too… strange. But he did manage to push himself up to a sort of kneel, at least.

"The fight's over," the legionnaire continued. "You can relax now. Markarth is back in the Empire."

Well. That was certainly news. … And not just because most people would take it as the Empire being back in Markarth.

Twenty minutes later, Aicantar was walking back into Understone Keep. He still felt very strange. In his mind, he shouldn't have been able to even come back here again. But once he told the legionnaires that he was the court wizard's son, a couple of them escorted him right on up to the big doors. They passed by a lot of bodies in the streets on the way. Most of them were sprawled out in the middle of big puddles of blood. All of them were Aldmeri soldiers.

On the way in, he noticed that the guards on either side had already been replaced with ones wearing the Empire's uniforms. Had they really managed to take this place over so quickly?

When he walked inside, he found a conversation taking place between a few people he didn't recognize. All of them just standing around in the first junction of the keep. Oddly, they all had suits of heavy armor on. An Imperial Legion officer, one of those black-and-gold figures, and an absolutely massive individual encased in ornate ebony armor. Aicantar himself would be around eye level with this last person's chest. He had definitely never seen any of them before.

At this distance, he couldn't even tell whether any of them were male or female. He had to wait for them to speak in order to figure it out. In the meantime, he slowly walked closer, the two legionnaires still at his back. This felt even stranger than before. He was being escorted into his own home, to meet people he didn't know.

"I could always call Nosqoriik," the ebony-clad giant was saying. Male. "Get the news back that way."

"Don't you think the people are terrified enough _without_ a dragon landing in the middle of the city?" That was the Imperial officer. Female.

"Oh, sorry," the ebony-clad male said, "let me try that again. I could always walk half a mile out and _then_ call Nosqoriik." He paused. No one spoke. "Anyway, we're not ready for that. We haven't cleared Nchuand-Zel."

Now the black-and-gold figure spoke. "We're still forming up, but we should be ready to move down there within half an hour. As long as your legionnaires can handle the rest, Rikke." Male voice.

The Legion officer, Rikke, nodded. "We've got a whole convoy of wagons to take refugees back to Solitude. And another to take Aldmeri prisoners to Cyrodiil."

The black-and-gold figure looked to the ebony-clad man. His visor was expressionless, but it was clearly an expectant look.

"Sure," the ebony-clad man shrugged. "Prisoner exchange, right? Just keep those bracers on them. Tying their hands isn't enough."

Then the conversation stopped, and the armored trio turned to look right at Aicantar. They must've heard when the doors swung open, but it was only just now that he'd gotten within speaking distance. He stopped moving forward, and glanced at the legionnaires behind him. It took a moment for him to realize that everyone was expecting him to say something.

The Altmer swallowed, and tried his best to compose himself. Half an hour ago, Markarth had been burning around him. Now he was talking to these people he didn't know. Things still weren't making sense. "Uh… Hello, my name is Aicantar. I'm Calcelmo's son. The court wizard's. I… I live here."

"Welcome home," the ebony-clad man said. Aicantar wasn't sure if that was polite or sarcastic. "My name is Kamian. This is Yrsarald," he pointed to the black-and-gold figure, "and Legate Rikke," he pointed to the Legion officer. Then, to the two legionnaire escorts: "Thank you, we've got this."

The legionnaires gave a quick salute and turned to head back out. Aicantar could hear them exiting behind him. No matter. He was back in Understone Keep now. He just had to make sense of what had happened tonight.

"Kamian, Yrsarald, Legate Rikke," he repeated, pointing to each one as he did. Then he focused on Kamian and Yrsarald. "I don't understand what's going on. The city is the Empire's now, but you're not in the Legion. Are you mercenaries?"

Kamian laughed out loud. "No! Not in the slightest. We're, ah… No. We're members of the Dragonborn's personal army, the Black Machine. Or at least the fellows in the two-metal armor are. I'm their acting leader, at the moment."

The Dragonborn's personal army. That certainly changed a lot. Aicantar had heard stories about the Dragonborn, before Markarth had been taken. About him fighting the World-Eater, and saving Skyrim, and then somehow ending the Stormcloak Rebellion. Now, it seemed, he had amassed a personal army… and used it to claim Markarth for the Imperial Legion.

"So… None of you have a problem with the Empire using the Dragonborn's personal army to fight its battles?"

All three of the armored individuals said "no" at the same time.

"Oh." Aicantar put a knuckle to his mouth. He wasn't sure what to say now. This had been such a violent, chaotic night. He wanted to just go back to his room and hide. And the Black Machine was really a new element to consider. The second he thought of it, though, he realized what he wanted to say. "You have a soldier numbered, uh… 12 · 4, yes?"

Kamian nodded. "Why, did you meet her?"

"12 · 4 is a her?" That honestly took the Altmer by surprise. The figure he remembered had seemed so tall, and stout, and… more importantly, completely blank. No face, no features. No voice. He swallowed and recollected himself with a nod. "Yes. I wanted to speak to her, if that's all right."

Kamian and Yrsarald gave each other a brief, silent look. Kamian jerked his helmeted head in Aicantar's direction, and Yrsarald strode up—and continued striding straight past him, out the keep's doors.

Aicantar watched him go, then turned back and took a couple steps forward. "Have you found my uncle yet? He's the only member of the Jarl's court who's still actually alive, if memory serves."

" _Yes,_ " Rikke said. Going by her tone, Aicantar could absolutely believe that she had, indeed, met Calcelmo.

Kamian added, "He seemed mildly concerned by the explosions. Some stuff about the stress fractures in the rock being a problem for the structure of Understone Keep. Or more importantly, Nchuand-Zel. His words, not mine."

Aicantar just sighed. That was his uncle, all right. Then something occurred to him. "How did you do that? To the garrison? I saw it go up in flame. And heard it."

A second went by in silence.

"Alchemy," Kamian said flatly.

"Well… That's great." The Altmer rubbed his eyes with one hand. He was running out of will power here. It was becoming increasingly tempting to literally run away from this conversation and hide in his room more. "So… All right. What are you all going to do now?"

But before anyone could answer, the doors opened again. Another black-and-gold soldier was sauntering in. A little bit shorter in stature than Yrsarald had been, Aicantar realized. This was the one he'd seen before. She was coming in by herself, looking around the corridor as she walked. Her first time in here, possibly.

"That was fast," Kamian murmured.

"I was just outside," said the soldier. Her voice was definitely female. A little bit on the deeper side, and gruff in a way that Aicantar didn't hear very often. "I was asked for, I hear? By… You, yes?" She pointed right at the Altmer mage.

He just nodded. He'd had a whole thing he'd wanted to say to this person, and now he was blanking on it all.

"Ohhh, I remember you," the soldier said, a bit more pleasantly. "You're that elf from the alley, aren't you? I'm sorry they attacked you."

"Oh. Yeah, I… I don't even know why they did that." Aicantar laughed, sheepishly. He actually laughed. That managed to surprise even him. "I just… I just wanted to thank you. For saving my life."

"Think nothing of it, it's all in a day's work for us," the soldier replied without missing a beat.

Kamian cut in, "Where are your manners? Get that helmet off so he can see you."

"Ah, yes." The soldier immediately reached up and pulled her helmet away. Aicantar actually wasn't sure what he'd expected. Beneath was the head of an Orc. A young-looking Orc woman, with close-cropped black hair and sleek, unadorned features. Actually, after a moment's examination, Aicantar realized she had a couple of golden earrings in either pointed ear. Very distinctive. He wondered if they were made of dwarven metal, like the armor. Because that was obviously what that was. Two-metal armor—dwarven metal and ebony. All very clever.

"My name's Aicantar," he said, a little lamely. "What's yours?"

"Oh, you wouldn't know it," the Orc chuckled. She had an easygoing, almost gentle sort of demeanor to her. Surprising, for what she'd been doing earlier.

"Humor me," Aicantar smiled. He could get used to this Black Machine, he thought. So far, they were much more pleasant than some legionnaires he'd known.

"My name is Blaz gra-Mogag. Fourth member of Squad 12. We don't practice titles or ranks in the Black Machine. They're irrelevant. In this particular machine, we're all the same gears."

Aicantar hoped he wasn't taking up this Blaz's time unduly. He probably was. But he was suddenly feeling a lot less inclined to run away and hide in his room. "You sound proud of the fact."

"It's more what people have taken to calling us," Blaz admitted. Now _she_ was looking sheepish. "Like legionnaires are parts of the Legion. Black Gears are part of the Black Machine. Clever, isn't it."

Black Gears. Aicantar wondered what it'd be like to be referred to as a Black Gear. It was fewer syllables than 'legionnaire', he supposed. "But…" He pointed at the embossed icon on Blaz's cuirass. "That gear is colored gold."

Blaz shook her head. "I told you, we didn't come up with it. The people of Skyrim did, when we finally revealed ourselves. And the people of Skyrim have never been good at naming things as a group. Stormcloaks? Really? Can you imagine if all the legionnaires were running around calling each other Medes?"

Aicantar stifled a laugh. This was bizarre. An hour ago, he'd been collecting luna moths and avoiding attention. Then he'd been fleeing for his life, then Markarth had exploded into chaos—literally. Now he was standing here and having a pleasant chat with a secret elite soldier. He had a distinct feeling that he was being exposed to a part of the sort of world that his uncle liked to sit back and study.

After a moment, Blaz took a breath in. "I'm sure it would be my pleasure to stay and talk more, Aicantar, but I really do need to get back out there. You're in good hands with Kamian, at the least." She was hefting her helmet, getting ready to put it back on.

The Altmer nodded in assent. "Right. Good luck out there."

"Appreciated." And the helmet went back on. The Orc was back to being a faceless death-giver. "One more thing: Seeing as I've saved your life, do me a favor and try using it for all it's worth."

She turned on her heel and left before Aicantar could say anything back. Kamian and Rikke were standing there behind him, looking on impassively. "Where… were we?"

"You were asking what we're going to do next," Kamian said.

"Right. So… What's the plan?"

"The Legion's re-establishing itself in Markarth," Rikke said. "We'll be bringing in supplies and keeping the peace until we can restore civilian leadership, and there are carts waiting outside to take people to Solitude if they want it. I imagine more than a few will. Markarth isn't in the best shape at the moment."

Kamian picked up where Rikke left off. "And while they're doing that, I'm going to take my soldiers back to Blackreach to rest and regroup."

"Oh." Aicantar nodded slowly, then paused. "What's Blackreach?"


	9. Gelebor 2

12:01 PM, Second Seed

The Reach

Six days and six nights had passed since Gelebor had first set foot outside Darkfall Cave. The barren, burnt wasteland had continued for this entire time.

After finding the nirnroot, he had continued on a southeasterly path, into what he presumed would be the rest of Skyrim. Besides that one mysterious discovery, Gelebor had learned little out here. He determined, after some time of observing the night sky, that this was the month of Second Seed. The sun's course seemed to be taking it through the sign of the Shadow. But he could not say what year it was. He had lost track of that scale of time long since.

And there was no one to ask, because Gelebor had journeyed these days completely alone. This perturbed him more than he might have expected. After spending a seeming eternity standing watch all by himself over the Darkfall wayshrine, he might have expected to take a meditative solace in his solitary travels. But instead, the experience was proving nearly maddening. It wasn't simply that no one was walking at his side. He had encountered plenty of people on this journey—and every single time, they had been in the form of bleached and burnt skeletons in the ash.

Six days and six nights, he had traveled, and he had seen death at every waking moment. The only exception had been the nirnroot—and after a journey of this length, after walking across so many devastated hills and valleys, after encountering view after view of lifeless landscapes, he no longer knew what to make of that one living plant.

On the seventh day, when the sun was at its highest in the sky, this pattern finally changed. Gelebor was walking along as normal, when he saw a long, winding irregularity in the ash ahead of him. As far as he could see, it extended off into the distance in either direction through the hills. The snow elf's pace quickened, as did his heart. He already knew what this irregularity was, and he approached it with a feeling of nearly desperate eagerness.

The irregularity was a set of footprints. Two sets, in fact, pointing right, walking in loose single file. Gelebor had seen none of these during his time traveling the Reach. But these prints were so fresh and clearly defined, they had likely been made earlier this very day.

He took off at a light, controlled jog. There was no sense in wearing himself out on a sprint. All he had to do was to travel more quickly than the ones whose footsteps he was following.

The path took him roughly west-northwest. The features of the landscape were as bleak and motionless as ever, heading somewhat uphill through crags and plateaus between sloping cliffsides. It was all so burnt. But that made the footprints all the clearer, and Gelebor kept his eyes on them. They meant everything to him now.

The footprints looked fairly normal, he thought. Both pairs had been made by some sort of heavy boots that left sharp edges to every print. He was already wondering about the people who'd made them. Surely, they must have been as horrified by these sights as Gelebor was himself. But they were traveling together, purposefully, in this one specific direction. This could have been anything.

His jogging pace took him onwards for perhaps twenty more minutes. Eventually, the footprints came up alongside the bank of a narrow, rapid river, which crashed down through the dull gray stones with an endless, very welcome vigor. Now the path wound upwards through switchbacks and bare rocks. The hills had begun to give way to the start of a mountain.

In the end, he heard them before he saw them. Two voices, audible even over the rushing of the river. One, deep and smooth, the other, lilting and delicate. Both of them, male. It was tempting to run right on up to them and simply introduce himself. But as he ascended the next switchback, Gelebor slowed down. Simply put, he had no idea of the intentions of these people. He had been guarding a wayshrine for some millennia, but if the state of this landscape was any indication, people were as capable of evil now as they had ever been. And these two strangers were no exception.

They might have welcomed the snow elf, or they might have killed him on sight. He simply didn't know. At what he judged to be the last bend towards the voices' source, he crouched down behind the rocks as he ascended to their level, and for just a moment, poked his head ever so slightly around the corner.

Two people were sitting by the riverbank, on a large square of gray fabric. Both of them were wearing drab gray-brown traveling cloaks, with the hoods down. The one on the left was a man, of some sort. Likely a Nord. Rather strongly built, with long, graying brown hair, and a thick full beard. The one on the right was clearly a mer of some sort, but something was very wrong with his complexion. His skin was a dull, colorless tone of gray, like the burnt lands that surrounded them. Thankfully, neither of them were looking in Gelebor's direction. They had a couple of black fur bags sitting on the fabric, and seemed to be having a luncheon from them.

"I'm just saying," said the elf—this was the one with the lilting tone of voice, "I don't think House Hlaalu will take long to step in. I was hearing rumors in Windhelm."

Gelebor ducked his head back out of sight before they could see him, and stayed quiet as he listened to what they were saying.

The deeper voice—the Nord—said, "Remind me how long you were in Windhelm, Teldryn? Four days, was it?"

Windhelm. That name was familiar. Ysgramor's city, the one he had built after defeating the snow elves. Gelebor had heard news of its founding all those centuries ago, when the Chantry had still been untouched by violence. Interesting, that the city of Windhelm was still standing after such a long time.

"You can hear a lot of rumors in four days," the elf, Teldryn, said sourly. "I was glad you hired me when you did. The Grey Quarter is no place to stay for long. Be grateful that your home is over west."

By the way these two people were talking, Gelebor could already tell that the fiery doom that had consumed this land had not reached far through Tamriel. That notion alone renewed his sense of hope. For all he had known, there _had_ been no limit to all this destruction.

The man sounded rather displeased. "Are you sure? I thought it was becoming better. The Jarl—"

"Is treating the Dunmer far better than Jarl Ulfric ever did, yes, it's true, but you must keep in mind that my people bear burdens and grieve losses from as long ago as the Red Year. They hang those tattered old banners over their doors for a reason. It's all they feel they have."

Dunmer. Red Year. These were terms that Gelebor had never heard. Evidently, 'Dunmer' was a reference to the sort of mer that this Teldryn was. It must have been some newer offshoot of some kind. None of the travelers to reach Darkfall Cave had ever mentioned such a change in Tamriel's races.

There was a brief pause in the conversation. Someone was chewing on something crunchy. Gelebor tried to remember what it was like to feel hunger. Unpleasant, as he recalled. Thankfully, Auri-El understood when his followers required his aid—for example, when standing vigil in an isolated cave for centuries on end.

"I so do look forward to having real food again," the man said suddenly.

"Well, as I was _saying_ , we won't have that trouble anymore once House Hlaalu makes its move. All of this ash, just waiting to be cultivated. It's astonishing how deeply it's penetrated into the soil. But Skyrim will never go hungry again, you can be sure of that."

House Hlaalu. Gelebor did not recognize the name. There were so many things he wasn't understanding. But it sounded like this elf didn't mind that this whole region had been destroyed with fire. The cost to its living beings had been plainly catastrophic. Gelebor had his doubts about whether to reveal himself to this pair.

The man snorted. "You suppose all of us Nords will be happy eating ash yams?"

"I've seen Nords eat the legs of a mudcrab before. And tell me you'd rather be eating _that_ thing than an ash yam."

"You… have a point," the man said. "It's striking to think of all this land being converted to grow Morrowind's crops. The Reachmen won't be pleased."

"They wouldn't be, if they were still around. The Thalmor saw to that for us. Just as they saw to this land's _conversion_." An overt bitterness had entered the elf's voice. "All we can do now is work with what they've left us. Your people had best learn to like ash yams. That's all that will grow here now."

The Thalmor. As Gelebor mulled the name over, he found it was putting an ill taste in his mouth. He wondered who they were, and where they had come from, and what they wanted. But he cared little for the answers, because none of them could possibly justify the horror he had seen these past seven days.

He backpedaled a few paces down the slope, to put himself at a less obviously incriminating location, then called out, "Hello?"

The conversation stopped. After a moment, the man called back, "Who goes there?"

Now Gelebor walked up into view. The two travelers were staring at him blankly. He closed the distance between them slowly, watching carefully as he went. "I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor. Who are you?"

Neither of the two spoke. A few seconds more went by before Gelebor realized that they didn't recognize his race. "I am a snow elf," he added. "Auri-El has sent me into Skyrim after thousands of years of isolation, to deal with a potential existential threat to all of Mundus."

Hm. Perhaps he could have phrased that more delicately.

But to his surprise, the travelers simply looked at one another briefly, then shrugged and nodded. He had rather expected that they might laugh at him for such an absurd statement, or try to attack him for being plainly mad. But they seemed to accept his story immediately.

"I've heard stranger things," said the man.

"We've heard stranger things," agreed the elf.

Gelebor couldn't stop from looking at the latter. He was a younger-looking sort, with a thick, long stripe of upright black hair running over his scalp, and a short, well-kept beard. And, Gelebor noted, black tattoos on his face, which created a confusing image along with the beard. But most of all, Gelebor was looking into the elf's eyes. They were a deep shade of red. Who had red eyes?

"I'm very sorry," he said, haltingly. "I'm afraid I… don't know what you are."

"My name is Teldryn Sero," the elf said. "I am a Dunmer. Also known as a dark elf. My people were once known as the Chimer, before Azura changed them to look as I do now. Some have called it a curse, though if I may say so myself, I rather do enjoy this coloration."

The Chimer. This was a name that Gelebor knew well. So the Chimer were now the Dunmer, it seemed. That was surprisingly simple and easy to understand. Certainly nothing like the complexity of Gelebor's own situation regarding the Betrayed. But Gelebor was beginning to feel that he was entering a sort of second life for himself, with an entirely new world to grow accustomed to.

Perhaps he should have had that realization the moment he walked out of Darkfall Cave. But of course, at that time, life had been the very last thing on his mind.

Without being bidden, the man spoke, "My name is Vidrald. It's a pleasure to meet you, Gelebor. Now… What exactly are you doing in the Reach?"

Teldryn picked up a light brown palm-sized disc and bit into it. It made that crunching sound from before, thereby proving that the disc was in fact some form of food.

"I…" Gelebor looked around himself, then shrugged helplessly. "I honestly do not know. I'm sorry. When Auri-El sent me forth, I had been standing watch over a magical wayshrine in a cave northwest of here."

"… Oh." Vidrald exchanged a glance with his traveling partner again. "You… don't know what has been going on out here, do you?"

Gelebor shook his head silently.

Teldryn lowered his half-eaten disc and let out a low sigh. "Gelebor, you might want to sit down for this."

And so the two travelers told him about the myriad things he had missed. The First, Second, Third and Fourth Eras, and the year now of 4E 202. The ascendancy of Tiber Septim to the pantheon of the Divines. The rise and reign of the Septim dynasty, and its end along with the end of the Third Era, during the horror of the Oblivion Crisis. The disaster in Morrowind known as the Red Year, and the Great War between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, the group of elves led by the tyrannical Thalmor—and now, in the past single year, Skyrim's Civil War, the return of Alduin the World-Eater, and the Second War with the Dominion. This last event was what had resulted in the Reach being reduced to ash. The local population had put up too much of a fight, and had been dealt with accordingly.

It was all a very bleak account of history, Gelebor thought—one indelible scar after another on the collective memory of Skyrim. The only ray of hope had been in the form of a mysterious hero called the Dragonborn, who had emerged only in this past single year, and righted innumerable wrongs all by himself. Gelebor found himself glad that someone had taken the reins in his absence.

And that itself, he noted, was a profoundly striking thing for him to think. For so many years, he had lived his life in service of Auri-El, in search of spiritual enlightenment and inner peace. Now, having been brought out into the world of the Fourth Era, he was beginning to regret having spent so long on his own. Having all these terrible events listed to him, he was very much aware that each of them had unfolded in his absence, and he knew he could have made a difference… but, he reminded himself, regret made no sense for him.

Auri-El had wished for him to guard the Chantry, and the Bow by extension, up until now. He had remained in Darkfall Cave for a reason, and now he had come forward into Skyrim for a reason. He could save his guilt for if he failed in this current task, whatever it would end up being.

Yet after all that, after all of his follow-up questions and these helpful strangers' clarifications, the only concluding remark Gelebor could think of was: "What exactly are you _eating?_ "

Teldryn had left his disc unfinished. He had spent plenty of time silent while his companion had been talking, but he had chosen not to finish it all the same. He said, in a rather depressed tone of voice, "A very nutritious and long-keeping food item from the Dragonborn's stronghold. They were being sold for a very modest price, and we needed food that would last us through the Reach. There isn't exactly an abundance of local wildlife to forage from."

Vidrald said, sidelong, "Do you suppose the ash yams will start growing in the wild?"

"House Hlaalu wouldn't like what that would do to their business," Teldryn replied, also sidelong. They were both still looking upon Gelebor. "What do you intend to do now?"

"I don't know," Gelebor admitted. "Accompany you, perhaps, if you allow it."

Vidrald squinted at him. "Are you aware of what we're doing in the Reach?"

"No, not yet. I'd be very pleased if you told me. I am curious how it is that the two of you have found your way so far into these ruined lands… and, also, I will confess that I expected more of a reaction to the revelation that I am, indeed, a genuine snow elf."

"You're still not the strangest thing we've seen," Vidrald said, picking up one of the fur bags and slinging it onto his back, secured to his shoulders with a couple of strategically placed straps. "Come. We can talk while we go."

Teldryn followed suit, but in his case, he also picked the cloth up from the ground, shook the ash off its underside, and rolled it up for stowage in his bag. Gelebor realized that not only were they both armed, they were wearing matching brigandine-type steel armor underneath their cloaks. They had clearly been traveling together for quite some time. "We're not far from where we need to be, I think," he said. "This river is a good sign, and not just because it's refreshed our supply of water."

And so the three of them walked alongside the riverbank, up the slopes and rock faces that composed this mountainside, and as they did, Gelebor offered his own tale. His service to Auri-El—or, as the Nord might know the god in question, Akatosh—was only the beginning. There was the great betrayal of his people by the Dwemer, and the fall of the Chantry, and ultimately, the vision he had received seven days prior. It culminated in his stepping outside, wandering through the ash, and coming upon a mysteriously giant nirnroot.

There seemed to have been an avalanche in these parts recently. The path was obstructed at times by more of those great broken pieces of stone, and they sometimes had to navigate paths that required more climbing than walking. But the travel proceeded essentially as normally as ever.

As he talked, Gelebor was quite aware that he was putting a great deal of trust in these travelers by sharing so much with them. But besides that they seemed to be the trustworthy sort, he also suspected that he may have been meant to cross paths—literally—with them both, at this point in time. So in the interest of sincerity, he ended his story by describing how he had found the footprints in the ash, and that he had heard voices ahead but didn't understand what they had been saying.

After it was all over, Teldryn said, "If you ever decide to write a book about your experiences, Gelebor, you could become one of the richest authors alive. You have a firsthand account of history that most of us have forgotten entirely."

"Perhaps," Gelebor nodded. "It is unfortunate that so much has been forgotten. When this trial has passed, if I am still able, I may well proceed with that suggestion, if only to keep alive the memory of my people."

Vidrald asked, "Do you really think your Betrayed will ever become better?"

This question gave the snow elf quite a moment of pause. No one had ever asked it of him quite so bluntly. Not even himself, during all his years of reflection. "I have to believe so," he eventually said, quietly. "To truly be the last of my kind… I don't think I can simply accept that notion. Too much has been lost already."

"Well, anything is possible, I suppose," Vidrald shrugged. "I've been seeing that idea in action quite a bit, these days."

Gelebor suddenly took a breath in and said, "I'd been meaning to ask you both—I never quite caught what it is that you desire to do here, in the Reach. What _is_ still left for anyone here, let alone such adventurers as yourselves?"

"To answer that question," the Nord said, "I should first respond to your story of your vision from Auri-El. I don't have the attention of anyone in such high places, but I do have a few particular friends in Whiterun. And what I've heard is this: Most of the planes of Oblivion have been destroyed. Wiped out of all being, forever. Now the magic of Aetherius is threatening to flare up in unpredictable ways."

Gelebor nodded along, slowly. "And it's up to you and your friend to solve this, I take it."

The Nord tightened his lips. "Mmh. In all honesty, Gelebor, there are very few people I would trust with this. Teldryn here seems to be professional enough about it all."

"Thank you," Teldryn chimed in.

"But I would not want to bring my current task to any greater attention. It is far too sensitive. And as for yourself… You are, it seems, the last snow elf in all of Tamriel. Yet we are not here to exchange sympathies for our long list of plights, nor are we here to study the history of eras past. We are here because Mundus needs us to be."

Gelebor's nod came more easily this time. These travelers were on a mission, as he was. This would make them worthy allies, if their goals did indeed coincide—and if Gelebor was to be entirely forthright, he appreciated how ready these people were to move on from the fact of his race. They seemed to agree with his feeling that it wasn't worth dwelling on. "Do you suppose that the nirnroot I found may be connected to this?"

"Well, they _are_ magical plants," Teldryn offered. "I've heard stories about specimens of unusual size, off the coast of Solstheim. But never on the island proper, and certainly never on the mainland. Perhaps the energy from Aetherius is causing nirnroots to grow, excessively, at random."

An interesting notion. If it were true, then it was likely that other anomalies were occurring, and not all of them might be so benign. That might begin to explain what exactly Gelebor had come out here to take on. "Perhaps. I suppose time will tell, if nothing else. Vidrald, what was it you were saying?"

"Ah." Vidrald cleared his throat. "Yes, the matter of Aetherius. Very few people are aware of this potential crisis, and even if they were, there is little they could do. My intention, as a Nord who would rather not see his homeland go to ruin, is to find a way to solve this problem before it can truly become a problem."

A short while went by in silence. Gelebor looked at the Nord quizzically. "Such… as?"

"Such as that," he said, and pointed up the riverbank.

There was a bridge. A short, thick bridge with two covered spaces straddling the river, right over a crashing waterfall in the river rapids. It was obviously Dwemer in make. The covered spaces were in the fashion of the deep elves' surface towers, with thick pillars and ceilings, and dome-shaped roofs of their signature bronze-like metal. An innocuous structure, yet for Gelebor, it still elicited an involuntary swallow. He had already had too much experience with the Dwemer's handiwork.

"Ah, finally!" Strangely, Teldryn brightened considerably at the sight of the bridge. "Something that hasn't been burnt beyond all recognition. It seems we've found what we were looking for."

It was true, everything around this bridge was still as burnt as ever. The trees on the mountainside were burnt, the grass between the rocks was burnt, seemingly everything that could burn had suffered the same fate. Gelebor did not understand what sort of magic could have been so thorough in its destruction of all things living. But the Dwemer bridge was made of stone and metal, and so it stood undamaged and unblemished amid the ash.

"This is the site of a dwarven a city," Vidrald said. "Bthar-zel, I believe. Now all that's left is a bridge. Supposedly."

It was uncanny how much Vidrald knew about these matters. But, Gelebor supposed, having contacts in other places—Whiterun's name was unfamiliar to him, but perhaps it was a site of magic—could yield such benefits. "It is difficult to believe that an entire city could vanish," he said. "Especially for its aboveground portion to remain intact in the process."

The Nord replied, "Difficult indeed. More likely, I would think, is that the entrance caved in, and the rest of the city was sealed off. If we were to enter it now, whatever we would find inside might have been untouched for centuries, if not longer."

"Vidrald and I have been discussing this for some time," Teldryn said to Gelebor.

As the three of them talked, they were moving up closer to the bridge itself. Soon enough, they stood before the covered space on the northern riverbank, looking through to the other side. For a fair moment, they simply stood silently, waiting for the others to act. Gelebor wondered what Vidrald and Teldryn were thinking. He understood little of what motivated either of them.

But then, he realized, he understood little of what motivated anyone besides other servants of the gods. His life in the Chantry had been so terribly isolated. These two travelers had taught him much more than simply the current state of affairs in Skyrim—they were also giving him an ongoing lesson in what it meant to go out and take part in the world. It simply remained a mystery why either of them even cared.

Then, another realization occurred to him—no one was doing anything at the moment. They all seemed to be waiting for one another to act. And so he broke the silence with, "Are we planning to cross this bridge, or should we sit and contemplate its existence?"

"No," Vidrald said. "We're planning to go up there."

And then he pointed farther up the mountainside. There, amid all the broken pieces of rock, only a stone's throw from the riverbank, was a great gaping hole in the ground. Or, not a hole—a tunnel.

Gelebor opened his mouth silently.

Teldryn asked, "Bthar-zel? … How did you know?"

"I have my sources," was Vidrald's airy response. "I imagine this happened when the Thalmor put the Reach to the torch. Something as simple as a tree root out of place is enough to undermine a rock face's support."

"I knew you wanted me to explore Dwemer ruins with you," Teldryn murmured. "I didn't think we'd be unearthing something so forgotten."

Bthar-zel. Gelebor could not stop from staring at the mouth of that dark tunnel up above them. He looked at it, and he saw the place where his people had gone to die. And he knew it wasn't reasonable to feel the way he did—the Dwemer were no more than a memory amid their ruins, now. But the snow elves were even less than that. The Dwemer had taken even their legacy away from them.

And now his path under Auri-El's guidance had taken him to the ruins of Bthar-Zel. He felt as though he were looking upon the maw of a ravenous beast of the earth. One that had taken his old life away from him, and now threatened to swallow him up as well. His breath had begun to catch in his throat.

"Gelebor." Teldryn's voice spoke directly next to him. "Are you all right?"

The snow elf took half a step backward, and turned to look in Teldryn's direction. He struggled to focus on the Dunmer's face. "I'm sorry," he said, quietly. "I didn't realize."

Another moment went by in silence. He closed his eyes, took a breath in, and collected himself. Auri-El's guidance had not failed him. When he opened his eyes once more, Teldryn was still there, watching expectantly. He added, "I didn't realize that my task would take me into a Dwemer ruin. I am… quite surprised. My people…"

"I understand," Vidrald said, just as quietly. "If you would prefer to remain out here, we certainly…"

"No." Gelebor shook his head. "If your mission will take you into this city, then I will follow you. My duty will not waver now."

A heavy hand laid firm on his shoulder. Gelebor required a moment to realize that it was Vidrald. "I have not known you long at all," the Nord said. "But I believe, truly, that we were meant to meet one another now. Whatever your journey requires of you, you will not have to face it alone. Not anymore."

And then Vidrald let go, and pointed up to the tunnel entrance once more. "Best to move now, I think. The Dwemer aren't exactly about to come out and invite us in for the evening."

Gelebor half-smiled at the jest. He couldn't quite bring himself to laugh. It wasn't the Dwemer that he was so worried about.

He looked behind himself, at the view of the Reach, where swathes of gray ash continued as far as the eye could see. Then he looked back up at the tunnel entrance, where silence and blackness awaited him. There was quite a lot of death in these parts, it seemed. Of course, on the other hand, Bthar-zel would at least be a change in scenery.

As the three of them walked up the rocky slope, the snow elf had plenty of opportunity to think. His new life was moving so quickly. Entire centuries had gone by in quiet solitude, and now in a single day, he had been cast into the intricacy of the Fourth Era. He felt as though he should have been terribly overwhelmed at the moment, and until today, he certainly had been. But until today, his only direction had been Auri-El's distant guidance, and he had been taking on the endless death and desolation of this new world alone.

It was as Vidrald had said: Not anymore.

That was a comforting thought. Excellent moral support. Gelebor still unslung the Prelate's Mace from his belt.


	10. Ria 2

Tirdas, 1:12 PM, 13th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Dragonsreach

Ria and Erik walked across the bridge to Dragonsreach's doors together. Business as usual. They had a payment to collect.

It'd been a decently short walk, which was good because today it was raining like Oblivion. Ria couldn't see fifty feet ahead of her, the noise was incredible, water was splashing everywhere, it was just a mess. Her boots were caked with mud, and the rest of her would've been just plain soaked, but thankfully her cloak was waterproof, so the rest of her was just fairly damp instead. She and her Shield-Brother had just been out in the plains, and there'd been a whole lot of waterlogged earth to slog through to get here.

But thankfully, the rain had only started up today. Traveling on foot in heavy armor was tiring enough without all the clothing around the armor being wet. This just meant she'd have a new reason to look forward to returning to Jorrvaskr. Which, admittedly, she could've done more than she was doing. Jorrvaskr could wait for now.

Strictly speaking, this wasn't really one of the Companions' official jobs, because it'd just been a general bounty posted by the Jarl. Or the Steward, actually. But a job was a job, and gold was gold, and killing bad guys was killing bad guys. And honestly, it was the closest Ria had come in weeks to feeling like her life made some kind of sense.

"Hail, Companions," said one of the guards by the doors as Ria pushed them open. See? This wasn't all that bad. People actually knew what she did for a living. And presumably liked it, because everyone liked the Companions.

Poor guards, though. They had to stay on patrol out here even when the weather was like this. Someone needed to get them some mead.

Ria pushed one of the doors open and held it for Erik to come through. Then edged in herself and shut it right away, and set about wiping her feet on the mat. If she ended up tracking mud through the inner halls here, she'd throw _herself_ in jail.

Dragonsreach was a spacious sort of keep, as they went. The ceiling was high and vaulting, reinforced with thick wooden columns that looked like they could've been masts on an oceangoing ship. It always felt so grand when Ria walked in, lit up with the sunlight shining in the rafters above, but… not so much today. After all that time in the rain, Dragonsreach felt positively cozy. Most all of the light was coming from the big braziers down here on the floor. It felt so nice and warm.

Ria lowered her hood and took in a deep breath of the indoor air. It smelt faintly of wood smoke. This was a good place to be, she thought. Jorrvaskr might have been the oldest building in Whiterun, but Dragonsreach was the greatest.

Whiterun's jarl, Balgruuf the Greater, wasn't at his throne at the moment. He might've been busy with luncheon, or some private matter, or any of a hundred little things, it didn't matter. What mattered was that the city's steward, Proventus Avenicci, was sitting right there, at the end of one of the long tables leading up to the throne. He looked to be jotting notes on a piece of paper. Typical steward business, essentially. Nothing that couldn't be interrupted.

The two Companions walked up side by side. Proventus noticed them before they were even halfway, giving them a respectful nod as they approached, but he didn't set his pen down till they were standing right over him. Whatever he was writing, it must have really mattered. Not that Ria was going to try and peek at it. She was all the way across the table anyway, and busy fumbling with her pack as well.

"Good afternoon," Proventus said mildly. "May I help you?"

"The bandit leader at Halted Stream Camp is dead," Erik said, before Ria could get a word in. "As are all of his friends. May they rest in peace and learn some manners."

And just as he said that, Ria pulled out a steel plate helmet from her belongings, and set it down heavily on the table. There was still some dried blood on the visor. Proventus eyed it carefully.

But then he looked up, and gave the pair a thin smile. "Enjoyed yourself, did you? Here—" He snapped his fingers suddenly, and one of the servants came over. "The Halted Stream bounty, please." And just like that, the servant was gone. What a quick process.

This all really worked on the honor system. The Steward trusted Ria and Erik to be telling the truth about the bandit leader—bringing back the man's head would have been pointless, seeing as no one knew his face, and this could've been anyone's helmet—and the Companions trusted the two of them to give their share to the house. Granted, that second part normally wasn't necessary, as all the gold had previously been going through the Circle, but it was a good thing the Companions were _the_ most honorable guild in Skyrim. An awful lot depended on it.

That being said, the dent in Ria's cuirass hadn't gotten there by itself. Battleaxes were fearsome things. She was going to have to get Eorlund to hammer it back out for her sometime.

"I have a question," she said suddenly.

Proventus blinked a couple times, refocusing his attention. He'd been staring at the helmet some more. "Yes?"

"Is it true that the Dragonborn asked for Breezehome to be converted into an orphanage?"

Her question actually got the steward to laugh out loud. That wasn't much of a common occurrence. "No, goodness no," he eventually said, still chuckling. "That building would be far too small. I can't imagine it would fit more than three or four charges."

Erik flashed Ria an I-told-you-so look. Ria made a show of loftily ignoring it.

Proventus went on. "No, the Dragonborn simply asked that the building be held onto and maintained in his absence. I recall gathering that he expected some colleague of his to move in."

Ria raised her eyebrows at Erik. It looked like they were _both_ wrong, then.

But Proventus wasn't done. "What you might be thinking of was that the Dragonborn asked us to renovate one of our disused storehouses as an orphanage. They're some of our most spacious buildings, and we aren't stockpiling bulk supplies as we were when the dragon attacks threatened our trade routes. So we're quite free to do as the Dragonborn requested. To that effect, last month he donated twenty thousand septims to the city of Whiterun."

Well, it was certainly good of the Dragonborn to have thought of that after all. Ria wondered if wait a minute twenty thousand septims, " _What?_ "

"The war with the Dominion has orphaned many of Skyrim's young, you see," Proventus answered, in a bit of an overly businesslike tone. "The Dragonborn would like us to look after them. I presume his gold came from his alchemy sales."

Erik was nodding along thoughtfully. He said, "Well, I hope that goes well. I know the Companions are more for breaking things than putting them together, but if you, uh… Well, if you ever need any help…"

The servant from earlier chose that moment to arrive with a hefty cloth bag in hand, drawstring closed around some very filling contents. Ria reached out to take it—to no one's surprise, this much gold was rather heavy to hold—and stowed it in her pack where the helmet had been before. More of the honor system at work. She wasn't about to count out the coin right on the spot.

Proventus waited patiently for Ria to finish messing around with her pack, then focused on Erik again. "I appreciate the offer," he said. "At this point, we're making good progress with the renovation. But as long as you're here, I believe the court wizard wanted a word with you. Well, not you specifically. The Companions in general."

The court wizard. Farengar Secret-Fire. His laboratory took up the wing on the right of Dragonsreach's main hall, opposite the kitchen. There wasn't exactly a door to it, more a great open arch. Ria turned and looked over her shoulder. She could see right into the lab area. There was a dark, robed form hunched over one of the pieces of equipment in the back. Now was as good a time as any.

"Thanks," the Imperial said absently. "We'll just… go take care of this, then. C'mon, Erik."

The two of them trudged on over to the lab. Much like the keep as a whole, it was pretty spacious for its purpose. There was a great big map of Skyrim on a freestanding board over on the right, and in the center, an L-shaped counter with some assorted magic supplies on it, plus a short stack of papers. The actual lab equipment was all in a row on the back wall. It felt like the room hadn't been really designed for use as a court wizard's laboratory, but here they were.

So far, the robed form hadn't acknowledged them. It looked like he was working on something at the alchemy lab. Grinding something in a mortar and pestle, maybe.

Erik cleared his throat. "Hello, Farengar."

The court wizard set down what he was working on, and turned around to look at the newcomers. This man didn't look like Farengar. He had a short, neatly trimmed beard instead of the huge sideburns like Farengar had, and something was different about his robes, and… He was just carrying himself differently. But with a bit of a shock, Ria realized that, in fact, it _was_ him.

"Ah," he said. "You must be the Companions I asked for. Yes?"

"That's us, yes. I'm Ria, this is Erik. The Steward told us you wanted a word." That's what she was saying, at least. What she was thinking was, 'Since when does Farengar have a sinister twin brother?' This was all kinds of strange. The last time Ria had seen Farengar hadn't even been that long ago.

Actually, the last time she'd seen Farengar had been before the Battle over Whiterun. The details were so hazy about that all. Ria had never thought it worthwhile to go bother the court wizard about his role in the Oblivion Gates opening. And going by the lack of rumors about this, no one else in Jorrvaskr had cared much either. But it was plain as could be that this man had changed.

"Well, have a seat, and—" Farengar squinted as he realized there were no chairs on the other side of his counter. "Go fetch a couple chairs from the tables out there, and have a seat. We have plenty to talk about."

"Yes, we do," Ria murmured as she turned on around. It would feel good to sit down. She'd been on her feet for a whole long while now.

So she and Erik both picked up a chair from the long table, and just carried them back into the lab. No one even bothered them about it. Farengar had already seated himself on the far side of the counter, and he watched as the two Companions joined him again.

It did feel good to sit down. Ria had been completely right about that. She was also suddenly hit by the realization that her footwraps had gotten very moist from all the rain, but she ignored that for now. The Companions of Whiterun did not randomly take their boots off while speaking with important people.

"Ordinarily, I would've liked to have this conversation with your Harbinger. I understand that's the title of the Companions' most senior member." Farengar paused. "I'm sorry to hear what happened to him. And the others in the Circle."

Ria and her Shield-Brother today were definitely junior members in Jorrvaskr's order of things. More likely than not, this conversation should've been with Vignar, since he was handling all the incoming work now. But Ria wasn't about to go out of her way to pass this up, so she kept silent.

When she didn't reply for a few seconds, Erik said, "Well, let's do our best to honor their memory. I… I'm sorry, I actually don't think we've formally met before, Farengar. It's Farengar Secret-Fire, right?—"

"Please," the court wizard said sharply. "I don't go by that anymore. It was a silly name. I actually…" His demeanor relaxed somewhat, and he sat back in his chair with a sigh. "I actually gave myself that title. The Nord who can secretly cast a fire spell. Clever, wasn't I?" He made a face. "'Farengar' will suffice, Erik."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Farengar," Erik offered dryly.

"You're… very different," Ria said. "What happened?"

Farengar raised his eyebrows at her, more inquisitively than anything. "I'm different, am I? Well, you, my good Companion… are absolutely right. I am different. It's truly remarkable, the difference that a small dose of education will make. Or, as the case may be, a staggeringly vast dose, greater than all other things that a person has learned."

It went without saying that this was connected somehow to the Battle over Whiterun—or, more to the point, connected somehow to the Oblivion gates. But Ria still didn't really know what this was supposed to be about. Farengar had just done some magic, and Oblivion had happened, essentially. The usual rule of thumb for matters of possibly dark magic like this was, 'don't ask'.

"I had my eyes opened," Farengar continued. "Certainly, I received some minor gifts out of the exchange. I'm told there's quite a market for dual-enchanted items. Perhaps once I've made enough of those, I'll have actually earned my keep as the most privileged wizard in Whiterun."

Erik responded to that before Ria could. "You can dual-enchant things now?—"

The court wizard was not deterred. "I can practice a slightly more varied and less inane version of the typical arcane arts, yes. They're really just toys, you know. I used to play with them, and it felt like I was exploring whole new worlds of intellect. Whole new worlds! Hah! No. Nocturnal, she showed me what magic can truly be. She gave me a glimpse. Here—let me give you two an analogy. I was, to a bucket of water, as Nocturnal was, to the entire ocean." He cracked a grin. It looked a little off. "That's how much I'd actually explored! Going around in my little arcane bucket. No, now I've seen the real deal. So all this talk of arcane arts has really started to sound like a particularly pretentious lie. There's nothing lofty or mysterious about magic. That's just something mages say to sound superior. Anyway, now my soul belongs to Nocturnal and I'm going to her realm when I die. Food for thought."

There was a very long pause. Ria wasn't sure what to say to this. Did he just say he'd sacrificed his afterlife to save Whiterun? By the Nine. But it wasn't just that Farengar had gone through such a huge, terrible change. He also seemed to be perfectly all right with sharing this with anyone who asked. He sounded more than a little disturbed.

"So, uh…" Ria trailed off for a second. "Are you going to be all right?"

"In the short term, yes," Farengar said cheerfully.

"Well, that's good," Erik replied, completely flatly. He seemed to be having much the same reaction as Ria was having.

Farengar nodded. "So. On to the matter I have you here for. I'm sure the two of you have noticed the recent phenomenon with the stars."

Ria realized what this was going to be about as soon as she heard the words 'recent phenomenon'. She'd first seen it just the other evening, sitting outside Jorrvaskr with her soon-to-be Shield-Brother. A number of stars in the sky had been shining unusually brightly. And that'd continued to be the case, each evening and night and morning that the two of them had been traveling. As far as Ria could tell, it wasn't even the same stars each time. It all definitely seemed like the sort of thing that a court wizard would care about.

He continued: "Obviously, today I can't continue, unless the clouds clear by evening, but I've been monitoring the stars closely, following the night the anomaly began. I set up an observatory on top of the Western Watchtower, and I've been heading out there each evening and recording the results until morning. Simple business, nothing special."

Then he began to reach for the stack of papers, but stopped halfway. He laughed under his breath.

"You know, there was a time when I would've just told you what you need to do for me, and then hoped you wouldn't ask too many follow-up questions. Here. You can look at these if you want. Try not to get them out of order."

Once he'd said that all, Farengar picked up the sheets of paper and held them out between Ria and Erik. Ria took it first, and gave the top sheet a look. It looked like a… list, sort of. An organized list, with 'Second Seed 10th-11th' at the top, and a whole bunch of different celestial events with notes written by them—some of them were just times of day, down to the second. The next page had more information for the 10th to 11th, and then the two after that were about the 11th to 12th, then the last two were about the 12th to 13th. A big, comprehensive list about how the sky had looked over the past three nights.

Erik peered over Ria's arm at the contents of the papers. He said, "Is there something we're supposed to be looking at in particular, for all these?"

"The times of sunset and sunrise," Farengar said instantly. "Normally, in Second Seed, we'd be getting roughly a minute of extra daylight. The sun would be rising earlier, and setting later. Take a look at the times on those papers."

The papers were clearly labeled enough. Ria actually rather liked Farengar's handwriting for this. She just found the entries for sunset and sunrise on the first page, then looked at the same spots on the third and fifth pages. It only took a few seconds.

 _Second Seed 10_ _th_ _-11_ _th_ _. Sunset: 8:36:20 PM. Sunrise- 5:11:08 AM._

…

 _Second Seed 11_ _th_ _-12_ _th_ _. Sunset: 8:36:20 PM. Sunrise- 5:11:08 AM._

 _..._

 _Second Seed 12_ _th_ _-13_ _th_ _. Sunset: 8:36:20 PM. Sunrise- 5:11:08 AM._

Ria looked up. "Are you sure this is right?"

Farengar folded his arms impatiently. "I sat out there for three nights in a row with a clock. I'm sure it's right."

"Must be a really good clock," Erik mumbled.

At that remark, Farengar actually grinned. "Why, yes. It most certainly is. It's a Dwemer timepiece. Cost me more than a little gold, but I'm very happy with it."

Ria could've been more interested in the clock than she was. She neatened the stack of papers between her hands, then set them back down on the counter, bottom end towards Farengar. "So, what about the really bright stars we've been seeing?"

"No particular pattern. They seem to change every day. But they are all existing stars, as far as I can tell. Sometimes, they're parts of the constellations we know of, but other times not. I've been trying to follow the Serpent, as well, but so far it seems to have been sitting in place. Maybe some pattern will emerge, with enough time gone by. But in the meantime, we're still stuck."

Erik leaned back and folded his arms, much like Farengar was doing. "All right. So. You've shown us that we're stuck on the same time of year. That's… That is definitely something to be concerned about. The month of Second Seed only _has_ thirty-one days in it. But we're Companions. Shouldn't you be talking to… I don't know, someone from Winterhold?"

"Nonsense." Farengar gave Erik a dismissive wave. "No, I need you to bring me twenty ounces of spriggan sap. So that I can fabricate a centralized harmonic focusing array for the seasonal shift between the time of day reference points. That way, I'll be able to precisely calculate the discrepancy between the two diametric horizons and the elliptical."

Ria… stared blankly at him. "Uh…"

After a few seconds, Farengar made an odd snorting noise. His face was all screwed up tight. Eventually he just burst out laughing. "Ahhhh! Ahahaha! Wow, it really—it really says—oh, Divines." He cleared his throat, then laughed a bit more, then tried again. "It says a lot about how we treat magic, that I can just say a load of things like that and you won't laugh me out of the room. Spriggan sap is just an alchemy reagent. It makes potions, and that's it. But I don't blame you two. We don't see, oh, Eorlund Gray-Mane asking for a bag of charcoal and then acting like its role in making steel is some kind of dark mystery."

Well, then. That had been unexpected. Ria was struggling not to smile herself. It looked like Erik was reacting much the same. But she was also struggling to keep mentally on course. "All right. Yes. That's a good point, Farengar, thank you. My Shield-Brother had a point, though. What do you want with us? Or… I mean, what do you want with the Companions?"

"All right, I'll be serious now. Here's the actual answer." Farengar cleared his throat. "I need you to climb the Throat of the World, and see about asking the dragons for their counsel."

Ria and Erik said two different obscene things at the same time. Ria was struggling to keep her voice down. "The dragons? _The_ dragons? Are you crazy? How are we supposed to do something like that?!"

The court wizard shrugged impassively. "That's more your sort of trouble than mine," he said. "I heard your guild's having trouble getting back in the flow of things. Here's your chance. If you don't want it, just bring it back to Jorrvaskr for someone else to take. If you do, bring it to High Hrothgar and see if you can get some dragons from there. I'll… I'll write down a few questions I'd like you to ask them, too."

Dragons. High Hrothgar. This was definitely new. Ria sat back in her chair and ran her hands over her face. Strictly speaking, there wasn't any reason why she and Erik couldn't take this on. They just had to head to Ivarstead and then climb the Seven Thousand Steps, like anyone did. But it all sounded so… so huge. And Farengar was handing it out like any other job.

Maybe this was what it felt like to be at the top of the Companions. It wasn't the challenge that made this sound so scary. And it did sound pretty scary. It was more that Ria was being asked to do something that was bigger than her entire world. She'd never been up that mountain before, she'd never spoken to a dragon before. This was a lot to consider.

On the other hand, Farengar had said it best. Here was their chance. And when Ria thought of that, she thought back to that moment she'd had on the steps of Jorrvaskr, sitting side-by-side with Erik. When they'd been talking about what the Companions were supposed to even do now.

Then, before she could think of anything to say, Erik chimed in with, "Sure. That sounds great. We'll come back for the list, say, tomorrow?"

"Whatever you like," Farengar shrugged. "I can write it while I'm pondering the stars tonight. Or—no, it's raining out. I suppose we'll see." Then he stood up, and looked down at the two of them. "You'd better put those chairs back, or they'll get annoyed at me."

"Gods forbid." Ria shot him a look that almost maybe counted as a smirk. Then she got up and started carrying her chair off with her. "Let's go, Erik. We have gold to spend."

Erik hurried after her, chair in hand, at least until they put the things back. "Wait. Wait, you want to spend it now? Not later?"

Ria was carrying quite a lot of gold on her person right now. She'd have to take it back to Jorrvaskr for counting and splitting, which was fine because she really needed to get back there anyway, just to change out of this rained-upon outfit. But as she headed on towards Dragonsreach's front doors, she was already thinking about how much she'd have to spend on herself. Hopefully her needs wouldn't exceed the double-digit range. She couldn't really be sure with these things.

"Of course I want to spend it now," she said, smiling at Erik over her shoulder. "It's never too soon to buy some heavy cold-weather gear."


	11. Thorald 2

Morndas, 7:27 PM, 11th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Silent City Target Range

Three quick motions. Three throws. Thorald was getting to the point where he could do them all in less than one second apiece.

He'd placed the target at thirty feet away. For the usual crossbow practice, that was pointlessly close, but he wasn't using his crossbow. This was one of his backup weapons of choice. Not exactly a normal backup, especially not with a suit of heavy armor slowing him down, but that was what practice was for.

Three throws. The Nord made the throwing motion a couple times with his hand empty, aiming right at the bull's-eye of the target ahead. Then, once he felt ready for it, he went through the motions for real.

 _Thud. Thud. Thud._ All three knives hit the target within the second ring out. He was definitely getting better.

After taking a second to relax from the throwing stance, Thorald walked up to the target and pried the dwarven metal blades free, one by one. Then he stopped and looked around the range. He was alone out here. Just… throwing knives for target practice, surrounded by the distant forest of giant glowing mushrooms, all beneath the starry ceiling of Blackreach. Life as usual, these days.

He was the only one in the range right now. Training had ended three hours ago. Dinner had been served an hour and a half ago. He'd done his scheduled business for the day. This was off-duty time. There was a gentle noise from the direction of the sun-orb's glow, where the people of the Silent City were going about their evenings. For all the dedication to war, things were actually rather peaceful down here.

Thorald was glad that he could help provide that for people. But he wasn't much for the whole business of drinking and singing and telling tales. Every time he tried to do that, it just felt like he was putting on a show for his squadmates. He preferred the steady burn of training, any day. And his muscles were actually burning pretty hard right now. Heavy armor all the time would do that.

Technically, this was an outdoor space, just outside what everyone thought of as the actual city, but the stand had been built into the side of one of the Dwemer buildings. They'd basically just knocked down a wall, held the roof up with some pillars on that side, and put a low railing across the opening. Then they'd put some rope targets in the dirt outside, like for any sort of archery. But there was still an actual door to get in, on the opposite wall from the open lanes. As Thorald turned back to the stand, he saw that door opening.

It was another Black Gear. One of Thorald's own. The numbering on the armor read _29 · 4._ This would be Echallos. Breton fellow, probably a good deal smarter than Thorald was. Out of the members of Squad 29, definitely the most pleasant to talk to, and the most fun to be around during off-hours. But he didn't have a crossbow on him, or even a regular bow. He definitely wasn't here for the archery.

Thorald returned his fistful of knives to their sheaths as he walked on back to the stand. "Echallos," he called out. "What can I do for you?"

The armored Breton leaned against the back wall of the stand and folded his arms. That ruled a couple things out, then. Also, with his arms like that, the gear icon on his chest looked like a little sunrise coming up from above his gauntlets. He called back, "Just wanted to see how you are. You've been training like mad."

"Not exactly news," Thorald said as he stepped back over the low railing into the stand. While he was thinking about it, he casually flipped up one of the little square lids on his inner left gauntlet, and gave the button beneath a push with his thumb. The stamina potion flooded into his veins instantly. All that burning went away in a span of seconds. It felt like he'd just gotten up and put the armor on.

Most soldiers in Skyrim didn't include stamina potions in their daily diet. But it wasn't usually common practice to wear heavy armor practically all day, either. That basically summed up the Black Machine, Thorald thought. Doing a lot of silly impossible things, and having the magic to back them up.

"You're giving us a lot to live up to," Echallos said. "You keep training this much, Kamian's gonna extend our hours. Just so we don't all fall behind."

Thorald walked over to lean against the wall at his squadmate's side. They were just looking out over the target range together. "Well, there's not much to fall behind at. What I'm doing just takes quite a lot of practice to do right."

"Yes, I've been wondering about that. Why are you practicing this? Why _knives?_ " The Breton gestured to the sheaths buckled on Thorald's thigh. "I'm sorry, I know everyone sort of takes it for granted around here that we do all different weapons, but…"

Echallos was actually the first person to ask Thorald that question. Which was saying a lot, since he'd had the knives on him for something like three months now. It was so nice to be able to actually supply the answer. He'd more or less been rehearsing it in his head this whole time.

"Well, it's like this. Here. Imagine you're facing someone who's too far away for your sword. Say, thirty feet out." Thorald pointed at the target he'd set out on the range, for reference. "You don't have your crossbow with you, and for whatever reason, you can't close in. Maybe there's an obstacle, or you're pressed for time, anything like that. What do you do to put them down?"

"Uh… Probably a lightning bolt spell," Echallos shrugged, before turning and looking at Thorald. He probably had a bit of a self-conscious expression right then. "Ahh. Sorry."

"And now you know why I'm practicing so much," Thorald said dryly. His squadmate, being a Breton, had a bit of a natural gift for magic. He was essentially the squad healer on just that basis. But that was a gift that Thorald didn't share. The Nord had never cast a spell in his life, and as far as he could tell, never would. He simply didn't have that magicka in him that spellcasting types all had.

Echallos started to say, "Well, we could always try making a more compact version of a staff of lightning bolts…"

"No, stop." Thorald held up an armored hand. "You're sounding like a mage. I'm losing the warrior I know and love."

"Or just beat their skulls in with your fists, mmmgh tear 'em all apart," the Breton growled in an impressively low register.

"There we go. That's it. Thank you, Echallos, you're forgiven." He didn't bother to hide his laughter. Sometimes his squad was just fun. Or at least Echallos was. "Oh, actually, that reminds me. I should check on that Telvanni mage I brought in."

Without missing a beat, Echallos pushed himself off the wall and started walking back to the door. "Yes. The Telvanni mage. Zaryth, right? That's her name?"

"Zaryth Velani, you may have heard of her," Thorald said in his best haughty-wizard impression. He fell in line behind Echallos as they stepped out.

The streets of the Silent City weren't exactly heavily trafficked. The two of them started on their way towards the sun-orb up ahead, and on the path ahead, Thorald could see only three other people walking about.

As they stepped out onto the pavement, Echallos was saying, "Well, I've read plenty about the noble Dunmer houses, but that was all before our time. I honestly sort of thought they were all dead."

Thorald was only half-paying attention. He was busy wondering about the Silent City. Mainly its name. It'd worked when the place had been an abandoned ruin, but the city hadn't been silent in nearly half a year. They were probably going to have to rename it sooner or later. Meanwhile, Jarl Noster was styling himself as the Jarl of Blackreach, which wasn't actually the name of the city he was ruling from.

That said, it was hard for him to think of a more striking title than 'Jarl of Blackreach'. For most people's purposes, that was about as mythical and prestigious as being the 'Jarl of Sovngarde'.

Echallos was talking on about some goings-on up in Alftand. Something about some ill-advised attempts by the residents to brew their own wine, out of flowers. That was new. Thorald didn't much care. Nords did enjoy their strong drink—he'd had quite a taste for mead himself, once—but that didn't feel quite right in the life of a Black Gear.

They passed by a whole lot of interesting buildings on the way through the city. Most of the buildings were uninhabited, just vacant structures waiting to be filled, but some were interesting. The new Temple of Mara, the Tower of Mzark, and then the Black Machine living quarters, just by the debate hall. At that point, Echallos split off, but Thorald kept walking, because Zaryth's lab was on the far side of the city.

He went by the workshop with the mimic machine, the warehouses full of random dwarven scrap, and even within a stone's throw of the Mzinchaleft shuttle platform. He'd never even tried traveling on that thing. He sort of had to wonder how he'd gone so long without exploring something so obvious. In any case, the walk was quiet enough. No one bothered him. It was a nice chance to think about what he was going to say when he actually arrived.

Soon enough, he was walking right up to the lab building's doors. The sun-orb was about as far behind him as it'd been at the target range. There weren't a lot of buildings in the vicinity—in fact, beyond this one, it was pretty much just an open expanse of dirt and rock. The actual road had ended a while ago. And this building was little more than a rectangular block of stone with a set of double doors on one side. It reminded Thorald of the field laboratory beneath Alftand, where the Dragonborn and J'zargo had done all their work.

In any case, the Nord pulled off his helmet, shook his hair out, and then gave the doors a gentle knocking. He knew Zaryth wouldn't want to open them and see a faceless visor staring at her.

There was a long pause. A very, very long pause. Thorald sighed and stood patiently where he was, looking at the patterns on the doors in front of him. He was sure Zaryth would have plenty of things to say about the metalworking on them. Still, no response. He was actually starting to wonder if maybe Zaryth was out right then, and he was just wasting his time. But then the doors opened, and there was the Telvanni mage, scowling irritably at the sight of him. "Yes, yes, what is it?"

Maybe a little less sunny of a reaction than he'd hoped for. But he'd probably just interrupted some important experiment or other. For all he knew, Zaryth might've spent that whole time just trying to put her work down without losing all her progress. He addressed her with as much of a smile as seemed polite right then. "I'm just checking in. It's been a little bit. May I come inside?"

"If you insist," Zaryth grumbled, throwing the doors open all the way and then walking off into the room. Thorald gently closed them behind him as he came in.

This was his third time in here. The first had been when he'd been showing the Dunmer around for a potential lab space, and the second had been a day after, to make sure the building was still standing. There hadn't been much to see, at the time. A mostly bare stone interior, with low shelves around the walls, a fireplace and basin against the back wall, and a stone bed on the left-hand side. He wasn't sure what had even been so interesting about the place. Probably its location. It was far away from everyone.

Now it was a couple days after the last visit, and Zaryth had clearly been busy. There was the obligatory alchemy lab and enchanting table just by the fireplace, but the alchemy lab had a whole array of extra bottles and tubes and strange devices around it, and there was an entire row of little metal bins on the shelf beside it, filled with different alchemy ingredients. There were some things in there that definitely had not come from inside Blackreach.

More strikingly, she had obviously been raiding the warehouses, because all the other shelves were full of… objects. Big objects, small objects, complicated-looking objects, simple-looking objects. The only thing they all had in common was that they were dwarven in make. Thorald had no idea what they were supposed to accomplish. Maybe Zaryth had just brought them back here to study, and then neglected to return them to the warehouses. He wasn't about to ask.

Plus, there were books. Just one row of books, lined up on the shelf right beside the bed. Honestly, in all seriousness, Thorald had no idea where those had come from. He _knew_ Zaryth hadn't brought that many with her. They'd just sort of appeared.

At the moment, it looked like the Dunmer was going and fussing over some thing or other at her alchemy lab. There wasn't a lot to do but watch.

"Oh, damn it, I knew I did this wrong," she was saying. "Look at this. Just look. I was trying to work with a glowing mushroom base, and I… I don't know, I must have left it too long. It's _fermented._ " She held up one of the round green glass bottles. Its contents looked to be opaque and bluish. And glowing. But rather than comment on that, she just wafted the air above it towards her face, and gagged. "Useless. I'll have to dispose of it straightaway. Excuse me."

With that, she started to walk past Thorald, towards the doors, with the bottle in hand. What a strange thing to have come in upon. Fermented glowing mushroom juice. That was all kinds of…

Thorald had been in the middle of setting his helmet down on one of the shelves. He held up a hand suddenly. "Wait. Hold on. It fermented? … Is it poisonous, then?"

"Uhh—Oh, uh… Well…" Zaryth stopped awkwardly in place, and gave the bottle a dubious look. "Not necessarily, no. I don't believe so. Not unless you drank an amount far greater than what would go into a potion, but—"

"Do you mind?" He held out his hands expectantly. "I just want to see for myself."

Zaryth handed over the bottle with a skeptical look. It was heavier than he'd expected. The liquid inside reminded him of milk, how it was all opaque but still as fluid as water. After a moment, he held it up and gave the contents a sniff.

The inside of his nose was promptly consumed in a fiery inferno. He couldn't stop coughing and gagging. He barely even managed to give the bottle back, it was hitting him so hard. "Wh—what? What?! Are you serious?"

"Well, don't look at me," the mage said flatly. "You're the one who wanted it."

"That's so strong! How did you…" Thorald turned around and buried his face in his hands for a few seconds, rubbing at his eyes silently, then turned back and blinked things into focus again.

Zaryth was still just standing there and looking at him. She looked more confused than anything.

Eventually, Thorald composed himself enough to finish his thought. "That's incredibly powerful stuff. An ounce of that could rival a whole tankard of mead. How did you make that? You could make a mountain of gold selling it."

"But who would… buy…" Zaryth frowned and stopped for a second. "Well, the process was part of what I had intended to be a greater alchemical procedure. Since it ended in an obviously abject failure, I have no intention of repeating it, but if you believe it necessary, I suppose I could write down the portion of the procedure that resulted in this… substance. As long as none of your Nord friends come asking me to make more."

"Sounds fine," Thorald shrugged. "I just know the people here would kill me if they learned I discovered this and _didn't_ share it with them."

In all honesty, he didn't know which Nord friends Zaryth was talking about. Only two of his four squadmates were Nords, and none of them—not even Echallos, nice as the fellow was—were what he'd consider friends. But he could already tell that this 'substance' was going to go far, once people realized it existed. It was a wonder no one had discovered it sooner, considering.

"It's interesting that you picked up on this, though," Zaryth said, as she put the bottle back where it'd been. Oh, dear. She'd used the word 'interesting'. "This experiment was conducted using the glowing mushrooms that are encountered in many caves throughout Skyrim. While they bear some superficial similarities to the far larger mushrooms found within Blackreach, I've determined that the latter are an entirely distinct species, sharing more in common with the small tendril-less glowing mushrooms found growing in patches on the soil."

Thorald silently walked over and leaned his back against the wall by the fireplace. He wasn't in a hurry. As far as he knew, Zaryth didn't even have anyone else to share these ideas with down here.

"As this species has seemingly gone unnamed, I've been referring to it in my notes as the 'Blackreach mushroom', though this, of course, not intended as any formal name. The larger specimens of the mushroom seem to be the same species as the smaller ones, brought into greater stages of growth by what I must presume is some subtle environmental influence. The largest, which produce multiple secondary caps branching from the central stalk, have been at the focus of my attention since I first observed them, and I've been running some relevant experiments a short distance outside the laboratory. I had intended to run them in here as normal, but I quickly realized that the indoor conditions would be unsuitable for such delicate experimentation."

At this point, Thorald couldn't help himself. He started talking right as the Dunmer was taking a breath in for another sentence. Fortunately, he didn't have to make her wait long. He tried not to use more words than he needed. "What are the experiments for?"

Zaryth blinked and leaned her head back a bit, as though bemused by the question. Thorald wondered if she would've ever even told him if he hadn't asked. "Simply put," she said, "I need a better laboratory space than this. Rather than attempt to find one within any existing building, I'm electing to do something that no Telvanni has ever done before, and make one within Blackreach." A tone of pride had entered her voice. "The branching mushrooms look perfect for it. Imagine the possibilities. A fully grown mushroom tower, glowing brilliant blue, laden with hanging tendrils as thick as one's wrist. It would be an unrivaled wonder."

A mushroom tower. A tower inside a giant mushroom. Or, made _of_ a giant mushroom. Thorald had absolutely never heard of any such idea before. He stared for a moment. "… You had mushroom towers in Morrowind?"

At this question, the Dunmer actually recoiled, her brow creasing in a sudden frown. "Well, they're all gone now, obviously," she said irritably. "Now, I'm going to need to monitor the mushroom's environmental conditions very closely—"

"Wait, wait a minute. Stop." Thorald waved his arms at her for good measure. That did get her to stop talking, at least. "What happened to all of the towers?"

Zaryth scoffed indignantly. "You can't mean to tell me that you're unaware of the Red Year. Are you really so childish? So uncaringly ignorant? Was that really so long before your time? The disaster that changed the face of all of Morrowind?"

The Red Year. That did make sense. Thorald knew that the Red Year was the disaster that had forced the Dunmer to flee Morrowind, starting around the beginning of the Fourth Era. He wasn't sure if it was why there was so much ash over there, or if that all had been there before. Or both. He found himself suddenly wishing he'd read more books about this.

Mainly because it just occurred to him that Zaryth must have witnessed it herself. The Fourth Era was only just over two hundred years long. That was far longer than a Nord's lifetime, for sure, but probably just easy adulthood for a Dunmer. She could have been a child when it had happened. This was starting to feel very, very bad.

"I'm aware of the Red Year," the Nord said, carefully. "How old were you when it happened?"

"Twenty-eight." The reply came instantly. "At the time, I was exploring a Dwemer ruin located in Sheogorad, which is an archipelago a short distance north of Vvardenfell. Fortunately, I was able to put my talents as a mage to use, and escape via boat to Solstheim." Zaryth was speaking very quickly, with an edge of agitation. It was visible on her face, too. She was rushing, hard. "From there, I was eventually able to make my way to Skyrim, where I began my travels throughout Tamriel, and which brings me to this laboratory with you now, Thorald Gray-Mane. Are you satisfied? Can we move on? Is—is that _acceptable_ for you?"

Thorald squinted at her. After a moment's consideration, he took a step forward. "Look… Zaryth, I'm not trying to—"

"What do you _want_ , Thorald!?" Zaryth snapped. Completely out of nowhere. She stepped back at the same time that Thorald moved forward. Her face showed anger, but her body was cringing. "Why do you keep asking me all these questions? What are you trying to get out of me? What is the _point_ of—why? Why are you doing that? Why do you have to _look_ this way?! What—"

Thorald was aware he was frowning. That was strange, just then. Now Zaryth was frowning too, but seemingly at herself. "Zaryth," he said again, "what's the matter with how I look?"

"I don't—what does that matter to—Thorald, why are you wearing that?" The words were tumbling out all at once. They were barely intelligible. Zaryth didn't look like she was even understanding her own words. "That armor, it's—it's insanity, you look like some kind of—how can you just go around wearing that, you're just showing off how much you're going to _terrify_ everyone, can't you just—I—"

That was enough. Thorald held up a hand. She stopped talking again. It made sense, what she was saying. In fact, it made too much sense. Thorald knew he should've seen this before now. It wasn't just that his visor was hard to talk to. His entire appearance as a Black Gear was scaring her. The entire thing. It was just scary.

It was hard for him to keep track of, mentally, because everyone in Blackreach was so used to the Black Machine being what it was. The armor was just their work uniform. But to Zaryth, it was completely new. She was dealing with having someone who looked like pure inhuman destruction from the neck down, standing right here in her personal safe space. This was supposed to be the reaction Thorald got from his enemies.

When he realized that, the Nord felt a sudden, sickening rush of shame. He was standing in here intimidating an innocent person for no reason. He closed his eyes, and shook his head silently for a second, before saying, "Would it help if I weren't wearing all this?"

There was no reply. Thorald opened his eyes, to see Zaryth standing there, transfixed, in front of him. Still no reply. After a moment, the Dunmer gave him a tiny, silent nod.

Thorald sighed. He didn't know how he was going to do this. There wasn't much to do besides get out of all the armor, he supposed. Right here, on the spot. In Zaryth's lab. It was a strange thing to do, to make someone more comfortable. But he couldn't imagine leaving this conversation for later. There might not _be_ a later time, with a topic like this one. So he just set about getting out of his suit.

It actually took less time than he expected. Zaryth was obviously in no shape to assist him, given that she was busy standing in the corner of the room and slowly looking over one of the dwarven gadgets on the shelf. But it was still quick enough. The gauntlets came off first, unbuckled and pulled off one by one, then the cuirass came next. He just laid it all out on the shelf by his helmet. Then he pulled off his armored doublet, not even bothering to take the plates off of it first, and then the boots went last. All on the shelf, all off his person.

He was sure it couldn't have taken more than two or three minutes, mainly since he skipped a whole lot of steps in the middle. But all the same, when he was done, he stood up, and he was dressed like any other worker in Blackreach. Short-sleeved shirt, plain off-white slacks, simple leather shoes. It was actually sort of nice to be out of all that armor for a change.

Finally, Zaryth looked up at him. A long moment went by, where she was just looking him over. Then, eventually, she said quietly, "I like this more. You look like a person now."

"I'm always a person," Thorald replied, as gently as he could. He walked over to half-sit, half-lean on the shelf across from the Dunmer. "Same as you. Now, uh… I'm not going to press, or anything, but if you wanted to talk about the, uh…"

Zaryth nodded, swallowing, and started to edge along the wall to be more across from him. "I was in the ruins of Mzuleft," she said. "Not… Mzulft, I know that's a ruin in Skyrim, this isn't that. When the eruption hit, I was still underground. I remember all the steam pipes bursting around me, all at once, from the heat from Red Mountain. And… I remember running outside, and…" She didn't finish the sentence. She was just staring into space.

Thorald was starting to get an awful, prickling feeling of foreboding. This sounded like a story that the Dunmer mage had never told anyone before. "… Zaryth?"

"Sorry." She came to attention right away. "Um… I came outside, and the sky was black. It was the middle of the day, but… the sky was black, and there was ash, and lava, everywhere. The island was tearing apart. The actual ground was splitting open, and moving, underneath me, and… I had to get out of there. I don't… I was barely able to do it. I used the Propylon Indices, the… like portals, to teleport, I just went from one, to another, and…"

There was another pause. She started talking again on her own, this time. Her voice was starting to tremble.

"I saw things, Thorald. People. The ash, and the lava, and the quakes, they destroyed everything. Whole towns and cities, all the buildings, just… just…" Tears were starting to run down her face now. But she kept talking, in spite of herself. "People… The people, I couldn't stand what happened to the people, they were just like all the debris—the debris, living debris, made _out of_ people—I saw them get buried, right next to me, and they were crying and I couldn't save them and there were—burned people, they burned, like wood, they didn't have faces anymore, but they didn't all die right then, they were still… walking, and their voices were still working, I think, I could hear them, but I had to keep going and I couldn't…"

Her words caught in her throat. Now all she did was weep. And all Thorald could do was watch.

The Red Year. Ten minutes ago, it'd been a brief little note in his knowledge of history. Now it was the worst tragedy he'd ever heard of. _The_ worst tragedy. Worse than anything he'd seen in the Great War or any of the wars that had followed. Those were wars. He understood wars. People did horrible things to each other. But Zaryth wasn't talking about that. She was talking about an entire race being smashed to pieces. Her own race.

For the first time in his life, Thorald wondered what would've happened if the Red Year had been centered on Skyrim, not Morrowind. The thoughts came all at once. He wondered how it would've felt, if it'd been the Throat of the World to erupt in flame and ash, not Red Mountain. If he'd seen his kinsfolk burning alive, heard their screams for help, and been forced to leave them all to die. If today, he couldn't talk about his home in Whiterun, because there wasn't a Whiterun anymore. Maybe he would be in Morrowind, enduring jeers from the locals for being a filthy foreigner, when he had no choice in even being there.

He didn't understand how anyone could look down on the Dunmer. He was feeling sick just from what he'd imagined just now. And here Zaryth was, standing in front of him, crying wordless tears of sheer grief, and it was all starting to make a horrible kind of sense.

Eventually, the Dunmer managed to calm herself down enough to speak again. She had to spend a while just sniffing and wiping at her face. When she did speak, her voice was steady again, but it sounded hoarse, more so than the usual raspiness. She sounded worn-out, in a bad way.

"I didn't save a single life that day, Thorald. I saw so many different people die. Even my… You would call him my mentor. I tried to save him, but he died, right next to me, in our boat on the water. Everyone I met that day, everyone else I saw trying to escape, anyone I could've saved… They all died. The only life I saved was mine."

Another long moment passed in silence. Zaryth's lips were tight. She looked about ready to burst into tears all anew.

This was going to break Thorald's heart. It was the threat of stories like this that had made him want to join the Black Machine to begin with. He'd been able to spare a great deal of people from some terrible experiences, during his service. But this had all happened two hundred years ago. And he couldn't imagine Zaryth had spent very long sharing this with anyone before, not with the distance she tried to hold people at. That meant she'd been carrying this burden inside her this entire time. And that was just… just sad.

Thorald pushed himself off the wall, and took a slow, careful step towards her. "You… _are_ a good person," he said. "You know that, right?"

The Dunmer opened her mouth silently. She stepped forward as well, and then immediately started to stumble. Thorald closed the distance between them with a well-timed stride, and caught her in his arms.

It was a quiet, delicate embrace. Zaryth's body felt so small against his. He could feel the movements of her ragged breathing. Her arms wrapped tight around Thorald's waist, and stayed there. This was another silent moment. It was all right.

Thorald had never realized how much the Dunmer actually smelled like ash. He'd always thought that that was a bit of an exaggeration. But he had a Dunmer cradled against his chest right now, and he was definitely getting the ash smell. Mystery solved, he supposed. Zaryth probably thought he smelled like sweat and steel. Strange, that he was giving someone an unarmored hug for the first time in years, and the first thing he picked up on was what it smelled like. He had a feeling that he'd remember that part for far longer than the rest of it. Memory just seemed to work that way.

Eventually, Zaryth let go, and pulled back to look at him. "I … uh … I actually don't know what to say right now," she said, quietly. "Sorry about that."

Thorald just chuckled and gave the little mage another squeeze in his arms. Then he let go too, and took a step back. "That's all right. Not everything has to be full of interesting things to talk about."

It looked like at this point, she really was out of more things to say. She was just standing there looking at some corner of the room that Thorald wasn't in. That was certainly a first. But Thorald did get the feeling that he didn't need to be here for this. There wasn't really anything he had to get back to in the Silent City, but Zaryth seemed like she was in that sort of state where she'd need some time alone to process what had just happened.

So rather than try and get her attention with anything else, Thorald started to walk slowly back towards his armor where he'd left it all on the shelf. "I can stay for a while if you want," he said, "but otherwise I should get back out there. Are you going to be all right?"

Zaryth nodded absently. She was still wiping at her eyes a bit. Close enough, then.

It took a little longer to put the armor on than Thorald had needed to take it off. He didn't bother to do a very neat job of it. He just needed to get it all back to the living quarters somehow, and the easiest way was to wear it.

The last thing he said to Zaryth before leaving was, "If you ever want to talk, I'm happy for it anytime I'm in Blackreach. I don't really say this to people often, but I think you're worth my time."

Out of respect for her feelings about the whole Black Machine thing, the Nord kept the helmet under his arm until he'd walked out the doors. Only then did he finally put it on, and proceed to take a look around through its visor.

The sun-orb was floating out there as usual, waiting for him to come back to its glow. And… beneath it, on the road, someone was jogging towards the lab. Thorald recognized who it was instantly. He started off in the person's direction at a brisk walking pace.

It was Lenve. Wearing his usual work outfit, looking a bit bedraggled. "I've been looking for you," he said, once they were within speaking distance. "Is everything all right out here?"

Thorald nodded. "Everything's fine. What's going on?"

"It's Kamian," Lenve said. "He's back already. He wants to talk to you. Apparently something's gone wrong with the stars."


	12. Gelebor 3

Tirdas, 1:22 PM, 5th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Bthar-zel

Gelebor stood in the very mouth of the tunnel. It was larger than he had expected, and darker. The gray stone beneath his feet was rough and uncut. Within the tunnel, the stone continued until it disappeared into a black abyss. Besides the Dwemer-made bridge nearby outside, there was little reason to think that this was anything but a naturally occurring cave.

Which would have been merciful, in a sense. Gelebor had dwelt in Darkfall Cave, after all, for longer than he could even recall. He doubted any natural underground space could frighten him now. Yet the will of Auri-El demanded that he act, and his companions had not taken him here to visit a mere hole in the ground.

The Nord at his side, Vidrald, said, "This is quite dark. Perhaps a spell is in order?"

The Dunmer at his other side, Teldryn, cast a ball of floating magelight above his shoulder, then began to walk forwards. The tunnel quickly filled with a cold, starkly shadowed white light, and they could begin to see inside.

The tunnel's interior space extended thirty feet or so into the solid rock. At its end was a pair of gigantic Dwemer doors. Gelebor swallowed involuntarily at the sight of them. He would have recognized their make anywhere. This had been the home of his people's betrayers, once.

Now he was unsure if they could even get in. The moment he laid eyes upon the doors, he realized that they were fixed shut—not simply locked, but sealed.

They were sealed by a solid, rather plain rectangular plate of metal, bolted directly onto the metal of the doors themselves, perhaps five feet off the ground. It was very large, nearly the dimensions of a normal door turned on its side. And it quickly became clear that its whole face was adorned with an engraved message in Dwemeris text, too shadowy to read just yet. This wasn't a simple metal plate—it was a sign.

And as it happened, the snow elf could read Dwemeris. As Teldryn walked closer, the sign's details emerged from the shadows, and the text suddenly became legible.

 _This city of Bthar-zel has been condemned by the order of High Priest Kagrenac. Any attempt to enter will be upon the pain of death._

Gelebor translated the text aloud for his companions. They stopped in their tracks all at once. A long look was shared between them.

"So, how do we open these doors?" asked Teldryn.

Vidrald shrugged. "A battering ram? I honestly do not know. This door may be protected by more than a stubborn piece of metal."

Evidently, neither of these two adventurers cared for what this sign meant. Gelebor remained staring at the engraved words. His body was transfixed in shock.

No race, Dwemer or otherwise, would forsake one of their own cities unless remaining in it meant certain death. And Gelebor knew of High Priest Kagrenac, from the accounts he had heard in the Chantry. For the Dwemer's greatest mind to have personally barred entry to the city doors... Gelebor was at a loss.

He swallowed again, and said, "May I have a word?"

The two adventurers stopped and looked at him, expectantly.

"We're about to delve into a Dwemer ruin." It was surprisingly difficult for the snow elf to keep his voice level. He didn't realize he would be quite so… affected, by this. "One that has been condemned by the highest authority in Dwemer society that could do so. I accept that my presence here is the will of Auri-El, but I must ask—what are we here for?"

"I'm glad you asked," Vidrald replied, unslinging his pack as he spoke. "Back home in Whiterun, I came upon a book about an old Dwemer war. A free-for-all between four cities across Skyrim—if memory serves, Arkngthamz, Raldbthar, Mzulft and Bthar-zel. And a war with no victor, since my ancestors swept in and conquered them all first. But the Dwemer were fighting over possession and command over the material known as Aetherium."

Aetherium. Gelebor did not recognize the name. However, he could guess as to its nature easily enough. A mysterious substance, named after the plane of Aetherius, and so valuable that four Dwemer cities tore one another apart over it. He truly had missed a great deal of history. "If the war had no victor, then how are you certain that we will find any Aetherium here?"

The Nord chuckled. "You're not going to so much as ask what I want it for? … A short period of subsequent study showed me that each city absconded with its own sample of Aetherium at the beginning of hostilities. I require all four."

Teldryn refreshed his magelight spell while they were talking.

It was interesting that Vidrald had accomplished so much research seemingly on his own. Apparently, this Whiterun was a place of some great magical repute, to afford such opportunities to any interested party. Still, he had left a… rather pointlessly obvious question for Gelebor to ask. "All right, as you wish," the snow elf sighed, perhaps a bit theatrically. "What do you want it for?"

"Aetherium is powerful, but very inert. It seems to have a stabilizing effect on any magical anomalies in the area. I'm planning to use it to calm the potential after-effects of the Oblivion purge."

"Good for you," Gelebor said.

Teldryn chimed in, "We're calling it the Oblivion purge now? Is that purge with an upper-case P?"

"It should be," Vidrald replied with a smirk. "They should be singing songs about it by now. The Oblivion Purge." He started to enter a deep, baritone singing voice. "Ohh, when the foul gates of Coldharbour did fall, the world was made less absurd, one and all—"

"No! No, stop! You picked the worst Daedric Prince! You'd lose everyone's respect for you with that song." Teldryn was doing a poor job of not laughing. It would seem that at some point in history, Molag Bal's reputation had completely disintegrated.

Before the situation could spiral any further out of control, Gelebor asked the first question that came to mind. He likely should have thought of it sooner, in all sincerity. "It's been so many centuries since the Dwemer lost control of their cities. How do you know the Aetherium will still be in them?"

"I'm fairly confident," Vidrald shrugged. "Obviously, in this city's case, it hasn't been touched since the Dwemer's disappearance. But I'm confident in general as well."

And with that, he reached into his pack and pulled forth an object whose like Gelebor had never seen before. His very first impression, in the first split second of viewing the object, was that it was extraordinarily blue. It was a cut-away semicircular half-disc, brightly glowing and opaque, etched with ornate patterns of obviously Dwemer origin. Its surface made it seem more akin to a precious stone than a workable metal. It was only as large as half a dining plate, but looking at it, Gelebor had a strange feeling that he had just laid eyes upon something vast.

Vidrald continued with a knowing smile, "After all, Teldryn and I certainly had good luck at Mzulft."

"Put that away before someone sees it," Teldryn snapped, before Gelebor could come up with a reply.

Vidrald snorted dismissively, but did actually put it away. "Who's going to see it? We're the only ones in here."

"I don't know." Teldryn shrugged. "Some… Falmer, or something."

"Teldryn," the Nord said, and simply stared at him.

Teldryn stared into space for a moment, then spat an obscenity and smacked a hand on his forehead. Then he paused and looked over at Gelebor, a bit self-consciously. "… Ah, right. Apologies."

"Do not worry," Gelebor sighed, "I doubt we will be seeing any of the Betrayed today. If the Dwemer could not survive here, their slaves likely would have had no better luck. All the same, we really should find a way to open this door."

A second went by in silence, wherein Teldryn refreshed his spell once again.

Vidrald said, "There's always the battering ram—"

"Oh, you must stop," Teldryn spat. "All right. I think I have an idea, but I'm going to need you both to step out of the cave for this. It'll be dangerous."

Gelebor peered at him inquisitively. "What exactly do you plan to do?"

Now, it seemed, it was the Dunmer's turn to show something that had been stowed in his pack. But in this case, it wasn't a special artifact—it was simply a bundle of crossbow bolts, perhaps twenty or so in number, tipped with points of Dwemer metal.

"Exploding bolts," he said, by way of explanation. "Out of the cave, please."

While Gelebor and Vidrald walked out together, Teldryn busily set about hopping up to the sign repeatedly and jamming the bolts into the space between it and the doors. The sound of him grunting, and his boots hitting the stone again and again, followed the two of them out.

It was still a sunny afternoon outside. The view from the mountainside would have been incredible, if it were of something besides a landscape of death. Gelebor closed his eyes and let out a slow, controlled breath. In the distance behind him, he could still hear Teldryn making noises.

"I could have sworn he'd never find a use for those," Vidrald muttered. "Not having a crossbow did not deter him from taking them from Mzulft with us."

Gelebor's eyes remained closed. There were two likely possibilities in the coming minute or so—one being that Teldryn would be blown to lightly roasted pieces, and the other being that they would soon enter the ruin of Bthar-zel. Neither sounded favorable, so he took this time to focus his thoughts. Auri-El had not abandoned him yet, so neither would he abandon his mission.

The Dunmer's voice, from back in the cave, suddenly yelled out, "FIRING IT UP IN THREE! TWO! ONE!"

Vidrald put his hands tightly over his ears. On a split-second impulse, Gelebor decided to follow suit. Just as he did, he heard the unmistakable discharge of a fire spell. A fireball? Had Teldryn cast a fireball at the door?

Immediately afterward, Gelebor was hit with a deafening congratulation for his impulsive prudence. A massive, instant blast of flame shook the air—the snow elf felt a slight warm draft upon his back—and a half-second later, a clanging crash of metal rang out on the cave floor. And just like that, it was over, and they were free to explore Teldryn's handiwork.

The Dunmer was standing but a few feet behind them, grinning sheepishly. He wordlessly led them back into the cave, refreshing the magelight once more as he did. The sign was face-down on the floor ten feet in front of the doors, with a number of broken and deformed rivets protruding from its back. And the doors themselves were now completely bare and unobstructed—and wide open. Beyond was a smooth stone rectangular hallway, brightly lit with white fires in wall-mounted cages, running back a short distance before dropping down with a descending staircase. For the first time since Kagrenac had condemned it, Bthar-zel was open to the world.

In all honesty, Gelebor had not been entirely sure what he had expected. Perhaps some black burn marks on all the affected surfaces, or something to the effect. His main impression, in the wake of the events of the past few minutes, was that Auri-El had a subtly brilliant taste in mortal allies for him.

Vidrald stepped around the sign gingerly, then looked back and asked, "Are you both ready?"

"Well, I _am_ out of exploding bolts," Teldryn shrugged, following him around. "There could always be more in here somewhere."

"And you, Gelebor?"

Despite it all, the question gave him a bit of a start. He'd rather been hoping, it felt, that Vidrald wouldn't ask about him in particular. But all the same, the snow elf took a deep breath in, and nodded. "May the wisdom of Auri-El guide us. I suspect that little else will."

With that, the three of them proceeded forward, and passed through the doors into Bthar-zel. It truly did feel like passing into another world. The rough, uneven stone of the tunnel floor gave way to a surface of perfectly smooth stone tiles; the air became warm and faintly humid, with a faint thrumming noise of unseen machinery deeper in the city; and Gelebor strangely expected for the doors to slam shut and re-seal themselves behind them. This was the world that his people had fled to, once, and now he entered it out of his own kind of necessity. He had to wonder what sort of calamity had caused the Dwemer to abandon this city, but at the same time—he could save himself the trouble of speculation by simply waiting for a few minutes.

The hallway was little wider than the doors, as was the staircase it led to. Gelebor had expected for this to lead them deep into the earth, but it turned out that the descent was much shorter than that, perhaps only fifteen or twenty feet—for architecture of this scale, barely enough to count as being on a lower level at all. As he headed down, he hefted the mace in his hand. Whether the Betrayed were here or not, he had no illusions that those would somehow be the only potential threat in the city.

As though he had lifted a page straight from Gelebor's own mind, Vidrald drew a heavy-looking ebony-headed war axe and said, "Be wary of automatons. Even when all else is dead, they serve relentlessly."

"This is incredibly well-preserved," murmured Teldryn as he followed them in, presumably taking in all his surroundings as he went. "To think—no one has set foot in here since the First Era. Perhaps when we are done, we should direct some archaeologists here, to tell us what's safe to remove and sell."

Vidrald asked without looking, "Do you ever get tired of doing everything for money?"

"Well, for the sake of perspective, I'm currently accompanying a Nord warrior-scholar from Whiterun and a _snow elf_ from the Merethic Era into a completely unexplored and forbidden Dwemer city. So in a word, Vidrald, no. I would say that doing everything for money gives me a healthy motivation to seek out the things in life that are worth experiencing."

Gelebor shook his head. He gathered that Teldryn was a sword-for-hire, and Vidrald his current employer, which naturally raised great doubts about the former's loyalty. This was mainly a matter of import since they were in a ruin surely filled with what a Fourth Era explorer would consider treasure. In places like this, so far from civilization, it was all too easy for an adventuring companion to simply disappear without a trace.

Then he reached the bottom of the stairs, and promptly forgot all his concerns about his company.

It was another, much longer hallway, running down past three doors on the left and three doors on the right, across from each other at even intervals, before turning a corner at the end. Besides the doors and the usual lamps, this hallway was empty, except for one single thing—an automaton. It looked to be some sort of spider-like machine, roughly the size of a mudcrab, made of ornately patterned and jointed Dwemer metal. Perhaps, once, it would have been some sort of threat.

Now, it would threaten no one, because it was stuck halfway into the ceiling. There were no cracks or pieces missing from the stone around it—by all appearances, it had simply intersected with the ceiling's surface, as though dipping into the surface of a liquid, and then become transfixed in place. Its legs on one side were hidden in the stone, and the others dangled motionlessly. It was quite obviously nonfunctional.

Gelebor wondered how it would have looked for a living person to suffer this fate. Then, an instant later, he thought back to Kagrenac's sign, the one they had just now walked right past.

"Let's keep moving," Teldryn said. "Please."

This would not be an enjoyable exploration. The Prelate's Mace was beginning to feel like a comically inadequate defense.

For the sake of thoroughness, they checked behind each of the six doors. Yet after the first one, there had been nothing new to note. Each door opened to a staircase—downward for the first and third pairs of doors, upward for the second pair—and beyond that, a long, branching space that could only be described as communal living quarters. There were rows and rows of stone beds with locked chests at their feet, metal cupboards and wardrobes, spaces obviously intended for the preparation and consumption of food, and even bathing facilities at the far ends. Thick metal pipes ran all across the walls and ceilings. No more automatons were in these areas, nor was there any other sign of disturbance. Each room greeted them only with the omnipresent, increasingly foreboding hum of distant machinery.

No one said anything until they'd combed through all six areas. They seemed to each have been more or less identical to the last. Altogether, they must have accommodated more than a thousand people, simply by virtue of having dedicated so little space to each individual's accommodations. For all the luxury of their mechanized cities, the Dwemer seemed to have been averse to giving themselves comfortable lives.

As they emerged into the hallway once more, now much closer to the corner at the end, Gelebor frowned. "Why would they put their own living spaces so close to the surface? Surely this would make them much harder to defend."

"It could be that these spaces were carved out first," Vidrald said. "Difficult to do the rest when you have no place to sleep."

Teldryn cut in. "Well—maybe. The rest of this place is going to be mainly machinery, I think. Doesn't it seem like the Dwemer thing to do, putting their own bedrooms up by the door? Like the sort of thing you would expect from architects who would put their own people's homes in danger before their precious machines?"

The three of them simply stood there for a moment. The only sound was that accursed machinery grinding away in the distance.

"Well, let's find that Aetherium now," Gelebor said, then started immediately for the corner ahead.

There was another short hallway beyond it, this one leading to a pair of solid doors, perhaps slightly smaller than those of the front entrance. Along the walls now were several more pipe-like protrusions, even thicker than the ones before, coming straight out from the stone a few inches before ending with what looked like hinged lids.

"Be careful," Teldryn said as they passed by the first one. Half a second after the words left his mouth, the lid opened, and out jumped a completely intact and active spider automaton. It landed on the floor, turned towards the nearest intruder, and lunged.

Unfortunately, the nearest intruder was Gelebor. Fortunately, his mace was already out. He swung it in the fashion of a lumberjack's axe just as the spider leapt up towards him. The flanged head connected with a resounding crack of metal, sending the spider flying sideways and bouncing off the stone wall. It began to reorient itself, but now it was by Vidrald, who brought his weapon—which, for its part, was an actual axe—down upon the spindly assembly of metal on the spider's back. A few slender pieces of metal broke and flew off under his strike, and the spider fell limply on the floor, motionless.

Teldryn looked down at the broken automaton, eyebrows raised. "That was… much easier than I expected."

"The spiders are workers, not fighters," Vidrald said. "Those gyros on top are glaring weak points, at least compared to the rest of them. Be on your guard for more."

"Do you mean more spiders, or automatons that are more threatening?"

"Yes."

Gelebor walked ahead and pushed open the doors. They yielded immediately, and revealed a grand, vaulting circular room. Not quite typical Dwemer architecture, as he understood it. It looked to be some sort of general meeting space. No columns held this space up—only the stone slabs of the walls themselves, arching up to a narrow point at the very top of the ceiling. The floor was host to a wide, circular space, three feet or so lower than the rest of the room, taking up over half its diameter. A few concentric rings of descending stone platform, leveled with narrow ramps at eight evenly spaced points, served as an omnidirectional staircase. This was obviously a place for public speaking.

A debate room. Even he, a snow elf who had spent the olden eras in the isolated Chantry of Auri-El, knew of the Dwemer's fondness for this practice. Of course they would have this here.

"Interesting," Teldryn murmured, before striding out into the room, hopping down into the lowered space, and stamping his foot a couple times on the stones. "Hah! Can you hear that? The sound bounces back in here. I sound so strange to myself, now."

There was only one exit to this room, a pair of doors on the opposite side. But the walls were lined with incomprehensible pipes and valves, and some of them were giving Gelebor a feeling that perhaps this room was not best dwelt in for long.

"I feel as though it's going to happen any moment now," Vidrald said. Evidently, they were quite on the same page for this matter.

Teldryn looked up at him. "Eh?"

"The terrible thing in Bthar-zel. We're all waiting for it, aren't we?"

As if on cue, two of the valves on the walls opened up, and a large, segmented metal ball rolled out from each, venting visible plumes of steam on the way. They came out onto the floor, and promptly unfolded into slender, articulated, vaguely humanoid shapes, with swords and crossbows where the right and left hands would go.

"This isn't _that_ terrible," the Dunmer said, as the spheres began to roll in towards him. "Though I suppose it does explain the ramps."

Gelebor and Vidrald looked at one another, nodded, and then parted ways to start running towards either sphere.

The right-hand one, the one Gelebor was pursuing, noticed him immediately and leveled its crossbow directly at him. He nimbly ducked and rolled to the side just as the bolt launched, letting it bounce and clatter off the wall. At the same time, Teldryn hurled an ice spike at the automaton—and unlike it, he didn't miss. The projectile shattered against the metal in a cloud of biting frost.

When Gelebor got close enough to start charging for a swing, the sphere lunged at him suddenly, its sword-arm outstretched. It was far too quick for him to dodge, but not quick enough to avoid his own mace. He brought it up just in time for the blade to catch between the haft and one of the flanges. And just like that, he was wrestling with an automaton.

Perhaps this should have felt somewhat cathartic, to be grappling with the creation of his race's tormentors. Mainly, he was worried that this mindless aggressor would manage to think to try its crossbow on him at point-blank range. Both of his hands were busy putting leverage on the mace, keeping the blade locked. He wouldn't have very much defense against any more incoming attacks.

Meanwhile, in his peripheral vision, the left-hand sphere had rolled down into the lowered area, and was struggling to fight Teldryn and Vidrald at the same time. Vidrald was keeping it busy with his axe, but not busy enough—Gelebor saw the whole thing, as the sphere turned away and tried to put its sword through Teldryn's throat. He managed to dodge the blade itself, but still got a Dwemer metal elbow to the face for his trouble, and staggered backward with a groan.

Gelebor's sphere finally wrenched free and lunged again. It would have been quite good to have a shield to employ right now, but the mace would have to suffice. He changed his grip to holding it nearly at the very ends, and deflected the strike off the haft of his mace. Instead of striking back, he started to backpedal. The sphere lunged again, and again—right, left, right, bouncing off harmlessly each time. He didn't need to destroy this sphere himself, he only needed to keep it busy while his companions overwhelmed the other one.

Then he heard Teldryn's voice say, "Oh, what? What? What is this?!"

Teldryn was floating through the air. His arms and legs were flailing and kicking against nothing. He was going right out of the lowered space, towards the right wall. And he was speeding up, rapidly.

Sharp, sudden pain shot through Gelebor's left arm. The sphere had struck him. He was lightly armored, quite more so than his companions, and both of his arms were bare from the fingertips to the shoulders. He let go of the mace with the wounded arm and cast a healing spell with that hand, not even bothering to examine the damage first, and continued fighting. There was simply nothing else he could do.

Teldryn hit the wall hard on his back, and instead of sliding down, simply stuck there. His cloak looked to be plastered on the stone behind him. He was casting a healing spell also, and groaning in pain.

Just at that moment, Vidrald grabbed his sphere's sword arm, chopped down hard on its elbow joint with his axe, and kicked it away from him, into the space where Teldryn had been just standing. The sword arm severed and twisted, and dropped on the ground… and the rest of the sphere promptly began to float through the air just as Teldryn had.

The Dunmer's red eyes went wide. He rolled aside on the wall a split second before the sphere came smashing into it where he had just been. Not one to waste an opportunity, he promptly pushed himself up—or outward, on the wall, and began bathing the sphere in a stream of frost.

The first sphere, the one attacking Gelebor, was not letting up for a moment, and as the snow elf continued to block its blows, it occurred to him that a machine like this would have been an incredibly lethal presence in the field of battle. Even in single combat now, it was putting up a far better fight than many living warriors could—and, he suspected, could continue doing so indefinitely. If nothing else, this machine would inevitably outlast him.

His thought was interrupted by Vidrald charging in and smashing his axe down into the sphere's lower joints. It wasn't quite enough to break anything, but it bent one of the rolling outer plates' fixtures out of shape, and the sphere promptly collapsed onto its side. It was still trying to lash out at Gelebor's legs when the Nord finished it off.

Then the sphere's broken body shot up and hit Vidrald in the head. He stumbled back with a great bleeding gash on his cheek and forehead, as the metal floated and jerked midair, before flying sideways to land skidding through the lowered space.

Teldryn and his sphere fell down from the wall at the same time. Its joints were clearly failing it, being blocked up with ice. Since his axe-wielding companion was reeling in place, Gelebor ran over to help—and went flying straight forwards at the wall himself. His feet left the ground, and he felt himself being pulled in two different directions, sending him into a bewildering spin. The wall's flat stone surface rose up and met him while he was mid-tumble. Thankfully, he hit it at a slow enough speed to avoid injury, but he still hit it on his back—upside-down. He had only just enough time to pull himself sideways before landing on the ground as well.

By the time he righted himself, the second sphere had snapped under the cold, and fallen apart on the ground. Teldryn was staggering dizzily over to Vidrald, giving him a flash of healing magic, before evidently running out of magicka. "New idea," he called out. "Let's get back out of here and bring someone better-qualified for this!"

On one hand, this seemed like poor planning—Gelebor had come here by Auri-El's will, and he did not believe that the three of them would have been sent here if they could not meet the city's challenges for them. On the other hand, gravity had just failed them multiple times, and he couldn't bring himself to argue. He finished the job of healing Vidrald, and then they all ran back out through the doors into the hallway.

The broken spider was still where it had been, on the floor. Around the corner, the transfixed spider was still where it had been, in the ceiling. There seemed to be no threats between them and escape. As he ran, Gelebor wondered what sort of phenomenon would result in these things occurring. Nothing he had ever studied or even heard of had described any such magic. It was an intriguing mystery, though truly, the point remained—he could not bring himself to argue with Teldryn's proposal. They were in over their heads, and that was a fact.

The front doors were still wide open, at the top of the staircase. Gelebor took the steps two at a time, ran through the hallway—he could see the cave ahead, and the sunlight coming in through the mouth, the Reach would be just fine compared to this—and very well nearly _leapt_ back over the threshold.

He landed on evenly cut stone. Something was greatly amiss. He blinked a couple of times, rubbed his eyes, and realized he was standing at the opening of the debate room. Teldryn and Vidrald came up behind him, and looked around at their surroundings.

Vidrald threw his hands in the air and shouted something very unseemly about Talos' human attributes.

"Well…" Teldryn continued looking around for a moment, then scratched his head. "Hm. Perhaps we'll be brought out to the surface if we try to go deeper."

For lack of anything else to do, the three of them ran across the room and pushed open the next set of doors. The noise of machinery suddenly became quite a bit louder. There was another, longer descending stairway here, and a left turn at the bottom. After glancing to each his companions in an unspoken confirmation, Gelebor took the lead and began his way down the staircase.

"Teldryn, if we're in here for much longer, you might want to try using your sword on these things," Vidrald said as they headed down.

The Dunmer replied, "Yes, use my sword on the metal automatons, fantastic idea. I always wanted to ruin it and have to get a new one. … In any case, spells seem to work all right. I think the frostbite spell just now actually ruptured that sphere's hydraulics."

As they were talking, Gelebor was busy wondering to himself about why the Dwemer had been unable to cope with this problem. So far, the anomalies in the local space had seemed unpredictable, but surely if there were some sort of pattern, the Dwemer would be better-equipped than anyone to discern its nature. And given that they had built an entire city here first, it seemed unlikely that this place had always been so troubled—more than that, given that its inhabitants had been of the Dwemer race, it seemed likely that this was all because of something they had done themselves.

What kind of Dwemer machine would be impossible for its makers to understand? One that worked with Aetherium, perhaps? That answered very little, besides possibly the sheer power involved in this phenomenon. Gelebor did not voice these ideas quite yet, partly because he had so little confidence in them, and partly because he had just reached the bottom of the stairs.

Around the corner was, as it happened, another large room. More rectangular, lined with more metallic machinery, and just as brightly lit as ever. A much wider staircase continued down to a sprawling open floor, with passages on either side leading to a railed balcony around the walls. In the center of it all, a massive, single axle ran from floor to ceiling, like a column—and it was completely covered in gears. They seemed to be of slightly different sizes, and each one was, somehow, turning in the other direction from the ones below and above it. None of their teeth were engaged with anything at all.

"By Azura, the Dwemer were stupid," said Teldryn.

Gelebor nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps they used that room back up there to debate why their forefathers had decided to build this contraption."

"Now, both of you, be patient," Vidrald said. "Don't blame the Dwemer so quickly. The fabric of reality is obviously coming apart at the seams in this city. So, clearly, this… stack of gears might not have always looked this way."

Teldryn replied, "Maybe not, but we haven't been returned to the surface yet. For the purposes of this ruin, I'm not counting on optimistic outcomes."

Gelebor began walking down the stairs as he spoke. It looked as though the hallway continued below, past the gears, beneath the balcony. "Well, be sure to watch out for OH GODS—"

His feet slipped out from under him, and he began to float forwards in the air, straight towards the gears ahead. He looked back to see Teldryn holding a hand out to him, and met it by reaching back with his mace. The Dunmer was just able to grab on, and haul him back before he could drift any farther.

"I'm sorry," Gelebor said, the moment his feet touched the ground again. "Thank you, Teldryn. I'm sorry, that was irreverent. Let's keep moving, yes?"

Vidrald shuddered. "That could have ended horribly just now. … Yes."

"And stay close," Teldryn added, before heading sideways and starting down the edge of the staircase, as far as possible from where Gelebor had left the ground.

The hallway ahead was quite long, and lined with two more pairs of doors on either wall, before ending with another large double door. The first pair led to spacious, low rooms containing what looked like bizarre combinations of pipe networks and water tanks. They never reached the second pair.

It all happened in a span of perhaps two seconds. First, the doors at the end of the hallway flew open, and four more dwarven spheres rolled in, followed by something much, much bigger. Another automaton—this one a hulking, two-legged shape, so massive that its 'head' nearly brushed the lintel of the doorway. It was walking in towards them at a slow, steady pace, and with every footfall, a massive, metallic thud rang out through the hallway. Then, as Gelebor turned to retreat down the hallway, the opening to the room behind them disappeared, replaced by a solid wall. Then, the floor beneath him disappeared as well, and he was falling in through the ceiling—and falling through the floor again, and through the ceiling—he couldn't even shout for help, because there was no air.

Something heavy slammed into his chest. It was Teldryn. He'd just kicked Gelebor right in the breastplate, mid-fall. The snow elf hit the ground hard on one knee—far too hard, he realized, immediately before he felt the pain. He screamed out involuntarily, clutching at his broken leg, rolling onto his side, unable to act. He realized this now, indeed—he was, truly, unable to act. Teldryn was dragging him along the floor, Vidrald's voice was yelling something, it was all impossible to understand. The thudding noise was continuing in the distance, coming closer with each step.

Teldryn dragged him into the left pipe-network room, and then immediately slammed the doors shut. Something was scrabbling and striking at the doors from outside.

How could this have happened? It made absolutely no sense. Gelebor tried to muster the focus for a healing spell, to mend his leg, but the pain was too great—his hand wasn't producing the magical aura. He realized that his voice was still crying out in pain, but he couldn't do much about it. At this point, he couldn't even focus his eyes.

Gloved, armored fingers held his mouth open. A hot, burning liquid poured in, and he swallowed out of reflex. The pain immediately dulled, and he used the opportunity to cast all the healing magic he could.

Vidrald was crouching beside him, looking into his face, saying something. He was saying, "Focus, Gelebor! We need you, stay with us!"

No sooner said than done, he thought. Once his magicka was fully depleted, he slowly began to roll himself onto all fours. The pain had vanished quite effectively, the bone easily mended by the likely excess of restoration magic, but he still felt rather stunned.

It seemed that Teldryn was casting his frostbite spell directly on the doors. Freezing over the latch mechanism. That would buy them time, at least a little. Gelebor had no doubt that that giant automaton would be able to punch these doors straight off their hinges.

"If either of you are thinking of anything, I'm open to ideas," Vidrald said.

Gelebor couldn't stop wondering how the Dwemer had managed to fail to master this. It had cost them one of their own cities, and the one and only High Priest Kagrenac had been the one to seal the doors. There had to be a reason why their analysis had failed them.

The scrabbling noise was continuing. Those thudding footsteps were becoming audible even through the doors.

He ignored that for now, and reviewed what he knew. According to Vidrald, the Dwemer of Bthar-zel had likely been in possession of an Aetherium shard. The city had been emptied and condemned. Upon exploring Bthar-zel's interior, it was turning out to be filled with intermittent, unpredictable anomalies, which were only growing worse as they proceeded inside.

Yet there had been no forewarning of this phenomenon, and besides the one spider imbedded in the ceiling, the automatons and machinery seemed to be perfectly functional—even after centuries spent with this magical danger. It was easy to assume, based on this, that with no living people present, whatever was causing these anomalies had somehow simply lain dormant.

The first anomaly had been during the fight with the spheres. Teldryn had been struck in the face by one of them, and a moment later, the gravity around him had changed direction. Then Vidrald had struck down the other, only for its remains to fly up and hit him. Then, Gelebor himself had run over to help Teldryn, and ended up careening into the wall himself. And after all of that, they had all attempted to flee the city, only to be returned to the debate room.

All of these events had something in common.

Gelebor drew himself up, hefted his mace and walked up behind his companions. They were both looking at the door, preparing themselves for whatever would come through.

He dealt two, quick strikes, one to the back of each of their heads. Their lack of helmets made it quite easy, and he had to withhold much of his force to prevent the blows from being lethal. The Nord and Dunmer both fell to the floor, unconscious. He had not enjoyed doing that, but it was necessary for what was to come.

First, he gave them each a brief dose of healing magic, so as to prevent any permanent damage. Then, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath in, and focused as he exhaled. Auri-El was with him. He would not be doing this alone.

After a moment of careful contemplation, Gelebor broke into a run, and sent himself straight into the closed, frozen-over doors. He came out at the start of the hallway, with the gear column grinding away behind him.

All of the anomalies had indeed had something in common, but it wasn't something the Dwemer would have known to study for. They worked in a world of reason and logic, not in feeling and metaphor. Yet these latter things were the way of Aetherius, and that was the power they had tapped into with their Aetherium shard. They must not have understood this. Even Kagrenac had never considered the possibility that one of his people's own machines might be behaving by any particular pattern—not functioning or malfunctioning, but actively behaving, in the fashion of a living thing.

The machine in Bthar-zel, whatever its intention, had begun responding to the thoughts of the people around it. Not in literal, intentional ways, but in the cryptic language favored by the Divines. The Dwemer had not been prepared to understand that, let alone work with it, and their city had plainly been devastated by the misdirection of its own power. But Gelebor was more comfortable now than he had ever been since walking out of Darkfall Cave. He knew he had Aetherius on his side.

The four spheres all turned towards him and began rolling up the hallway once more. Behind them, the giant automaton had very nearly reached the frozen door, but turned to look at him as well. Gelebor regarded them with a quiet, considerate calm. They had no minds of their own, which meant they were unable to cause any of these anomalies themselves. He had no reason to fear them.

He took a step forwards, into the hallway, and imagined the sensation he had felt when he had fallen through the floor—lost in being, frozen in space, yet moving ever faster. He imagined it, and threw himself outward in his mind, offering his being to the world before him. All four spheres promptly dropped through the stone tiles themselves, as though passing through a false image. Just as they did, he refocused his attention elsewhere, and the spheres were entombed up to their shoulders in solid rock. That was adequate, he supposed. As an afterthought, he put his mace back on his belt. He doubted he would need it now.

The giant automaton was still approaching him. He sped up to a running pace, straight towards it, and watched it raise its arm—the one that ended with a hammer—to try to strike him. Yet he simply closed his eyes, extended his hands, and felt the stone meet him. He was at the very end of the hallway, at the open doors that the automaton had entered through. It turned around and faced him, then immediately began plodding down its new backtracking path. If it were a living creature, it should have been immensely exasperated right then.

This next room in which Gelebor stood seemed to be a sort of central junction, just a small square room with two doors on the left and two on the right. Recessed in the back wall was a very large arched metal frame, which had no doubt supported the giant automaton before it had been activated along with the spheres. Presumably, some anomaly had been responsible for that, as well.

The snow elf gazed back up the hallway at the automaton in the distance. Then, carefully, he lowered himself to his knees before the doorframe, and bent down to grip the edges of one of the stone tiles with his fingertips. He kept his eyes on the automaton above, and the gear column above that. It would be so exciting to get to climb that entire way.

The thudding of the automaton's footsteps suddenly stopped. Its form was quickly growing larger and larger. Gelebor felt his weight begin to shift, back towards the far wall, and he tactfully edged a bit to the side as he began to hang from the edge of the tile. It wouldn't do to be in the way, after all.

The automaton shot through the doorway at such a blistering speed that Gelebor was physically buffeted back by the rush of air. On a prudent impulse, he let go of the tile and clapped his hands over his ears, his weight immediately returning to the floor beneath him. An instant later, the automaton landed on its own support arch with an ear-splitting crash. It not only tore the arch straight out of the floor, but broke itself into a dozen different pieces in the process, spilling out onto the tiles in a shower of pent-up steam.

Gelebor hopped back to his feet, brushed himself off, and began exploring.

Two of the rooms, the ones nearer to the hallway, seemed like storage spaces for automaton parts—dead ends, essentially. The other two led down long, winding passages, and with a slow feeling of consternation, the snow elf realized that he didn't have time to explore them both.

It might have taken him twenty or thirty minutes to get through this whole place, possibly more—and his companions would wake up much sooner than that. When they did, they would resume influencing this place with their thoughts, and the danger would begin anew. He didn't even dare to try to remove their unconscious forms from the ruin now, for how catastrophic the anomalies had been beginning to become. With this all in mind, he decided to do something much happier and easier, and take a shortcut.

He thought back to the sight of the Aetherium shard that Vidrald had shown him. The one that the Nord had described as being from Mzulft, with its opaque blue coloration and its intricately sculpted patterns. It had been so small, and yet so great at the same time. He felt as though he could have simply reached out and picked it up. Would that not have been simpler? It would have made him so happy.

There was a machine before him. A massive, metal machine, made of radial struts and pipes running over the floor and walls, all focused on a central pedestal. There was likely more that he wasn't seeing, but it was the pedestal he was focused on, because atop it, bolted and secured firmly in a recessed surface, was another shard of Aetherium. A single, bright white beam of light was running between it and something high above. An interesting design, to be sure, but Gelebor didn't find it so important. He didn't need all of that.

He reached out with one hand, and his digits passed harmlessly through the surface of the machine, as though the metal weren't even there. After a moment of grasping at nothing of importance, his fingertips met the solid surface of the Aetherium beneath. This was what he needed. A smile played upon his face for a moment. Then he curled his fingers tight around the shard, and pulled.

The machine was no longer in sight. Gelebor was standing back in the middle of the junction room, with the broken pieces of a giant automaton behind him, and an Aetherium shard in his hand.

After a brief moment of thought, he started walking up the hallway—the other two doors had more of those pipe networks behind them, unsurprisingly—and stopped at the frozen door. "Hello?" He knocked three times, politely. "Can you hear me in there?"

There was no immediate response, so he stood still and counted to ten in case they needed time to answer. When those were past, he reached for the door handle and tried to open it, but unfortunately, the latch was still frozen as before.

Now he took the mace back out, and hammered its butt against the door a few times. Perhaps this was a touch less polite than before. He put it back away afterward. "Wake up! It's me, Gelebor!"

After a few seconds, there was a noise. He could hear a fire spell being cast, and then a moment later, Teldryn was opening the doors with an accusing scowl.

"I hope you have a good reason for leaving us—" Then his eyes went to what was in Gelebor's hand, and the scowl vanished. "I see you have a good reason."

Vidrald came up behind the Dunmer, looking at both of them curiously, before focusing on the same thing as his companion. "How did you get that?"

"I figured out what happened to Bthar-zel," Gelebor said. "I presume they wanted to gain some sort of edge in their war with the other Aetherium cities, which compelled them to use this shard in a great machine of some kind. Once I realized that the machine was creating anomalies based on our own thoughts, I had to knock both of you unconscious so as to not have any thoughts interfering with mine. I apologize for the lack of warning."

"Well… All right. No hard feelings," Teldryn shrugged. "You did it. Good job!"

Vidrald reached past him with an upturned, expectant hand. "Do you mind if I hold onto that? … I have a pack to put it in. Better than having it take up your hand."

Gelebor obligingly laid the shard in the Nord's palm, then nodded. "Much of this ruin remains unexplored. We should leave here, and perhaps notify someone more inclined to take their time with it."

"That won't be a problem," Vidrald smiled. "In fact, that should fit with our plans perfectly. The next shard is in Raldbthar, and that means there are some friendly faces right beneath it."


	13. Logrolf 2

Loredas, 8:14 AM, 2nd of Second Seed, 4E 202

Eastmarch Impact Crater

Logrolf's body was still in Skyrim, but his mind was in another world.

He had lost track of his idea of time long since. All that mattered now was this stone. Like many things, its appearance was deceiving. It was a stone sphere, engraved with arcane patterns, which might lead one to believe it held some kind of great power within it. But that was wrong. It wasn't a container, it was a conduit. As he stood touching its surface, he became a part of its connection, and he was free to look through into Aetherius.

There was no way to wholly describe how such an innately immortal view looked. It defied the conventions of mortal imagery. It was like the starry expanse of the sky, pinpricks of brilliant energy scattered through the empty space of creation. Or, it was like an endless river, fed by unseen tributaries, spreading into distant deltas, yet lacking any beginning or ending. Or, it was like the insane ramblings of an old man who had seen too much of the fabric of reality. Logrolf hated crossing paths with those types. They were useful sometimes, yes, but they were so, so annoying.

No, his sanity was perfectly intact. He was sure of that. It must have been something about the stone, keeping him from seeing these worlds within worlds in a way that would overwhelm him. He couldn't even begin to guess how this stone had been created, let alone why. But here it was, and the Nord was glad to use the opportunity.

He wasn't feeling hungry or thirsty, he was finding. Certainly not tired. His body seemed to be in some form of altered state. On a probably very related note, a swirling cyan bubble of glowing magical force had grown around him, in quite the healthy radius. If anyone was looking at it from outside, he couldn't tell. He also didn't care. In here, the rest of Mundus was an unnecessary distraction. His eyes were on something much bigger.

Like any mortal in such a situation, when he realized what this stone actually did, Logrolf had been filled with questions. But the first and foremost in his mind was: What could he do with this?

He'd spent a long time just passively observing what the connection showed him. Every time he tried to make sense of what he was looking at, his idea of it changed. The best he could do was to try and find things in common between the different ideas. But even that was a challenge. After what'd probably been hours of watching and waiting, he'd succeeded in little more than giving himself a headache. Not an insanity headache, just an exasperation headache. Aetherius was so big, and he was so small. If he were going to work with this, he had to do something to make himself bigger.

Or he could just dip a toe into the waters and see what happened. Worst case scenario, his head would instantly explode and paint everything nearby with drippy red potential alchemy reagents.

It was a strange experience, when he finally extended himself into the connection. There was no physical action to it. All he ended up doing was to will something on the other end of the connection to move.

Logrolf's head didn't explode. Instead, his image of Aetherius snapped into focus as a bottomless sea of thick, sluggish water, shining with rays of sunlight from a surface that wasn't there. It was filled with tiny, floating shards of light, like so much detritus in the surf. He forced a hand through the water, and the shards moved aside.

This was going to take a while, he realized. This image was as flawed as any of the others, but he would do for his purposes. It would still take a while. He was a mortal, interfering in the affairs of all existence through the connection of a mysterious artifact. Of course it would be difficult to move, through this… extremely thick version of water. It was like trying to move through neck-deep mud, if the mud were crystal-clear and filled with the energy from which all things originated.

At first, all he did was move through the water, examining the shards as they floated past his view. They were such an infinite expanse, but every one was different in its own way. Before long—or maybe it had been a long time, he didn't know—he'd begun to observe patterns in each shard's unique traits. Some were soft, dim things, simply holding things still, and some shone brightly with radiant energy, no doubt casting their rays all the way down to Mundus.

Was Mundus the seafloor in this vision? Was there a bottom to this sea after all? Logrolf shook his head. He couldn't afford to get distracted by questions like that. Right now, ignorance was a strength for him. It let him continue to act in this realm, even if he didn't entirely understand what he was doing.

Which led him to an obvious issue. This was all a truly wondrous experience, but he still didn't know what he was doing. Ideally, he'd come out of this wielding some great form of power, something unattainable by any properly mortal means. This stone, this shooting star, had been a gift for whoever would use it first, and that happened to be him. This conduit to Aetherius was the perfect chance for him to begin on a new way in life. He hoped that soon, Boethiah's disappearance would no longer even feel like a loss.

But the shards were uncooperative. Every time he reached for one, it rushed out of his closing grip, propelled on the displaced currents of the thick, stubborn water. He lost count of how many shards eluded him this way. Tens, hundreds, thousands, he wouldn't know. Time wasn't so important here. But his patience wouldn't last forever. As much as this sea of shards felt more usable than any vision before it, this obstacle was truly troublesome.

The answer came when he found a break in the pattern. A shard that was different, somehow. It pulsed with a different, distinct energy, and when Logrolf looked on it, he knew it was a violent force. Not an Aetherial force in the slightest. Nothing from Aetherius could be so focused on destruction … and that was when he realized it.

He hadn't been looking at Aetherius. That wasn't what this conduit connected to. He'd been looking at the entire Aurbis.

And these shards were from all of its inhabited planes. Only the bright, radiant ones were from Aetherius—the dimmer ones were from Mundus, and this one? This violent-looking one? This was one of the last remaining shards of Oblivion.

Maybe it'd been part of a Daedric Prince, once. It didn't seem to have much of an identity now. No matter, either way. It was remarkable enough that his image of the Aurbis hadn't changed on him when he realized its nature. There was no doubt in his mind that this shard of Oblivion was what he needed.

And sure enough, when he reached out to grab it—it actually worked. He didn't dare to open his hand once more, for fear of losing it, but he could feel the furious heat of the shard against his palm, and he knew he had found what he was looking for. It was incredible, being able to control something in the mists of the Aurbis. There was no point denying it: He felt like a god.

From there, it became a search for more shards of its kind. With this first one in his hand, Logrolf eventually realized that some of the brighter shards would now stay within his grasp as well, but he stopped after only a few of those. Perhaps they could amplify the power of the first, more violent one, but he refused to believe that he had found the only shard of its kind in all existence. He would keep looking.

Time stretched on, and on, and on, and Logrolf continued on his way through the sea. It was a truly long time before he found the next heated shard. By then, he had grown so accustomed to the heat in his grasp that he had nearly forgotten it was there. But to his surprise, not only did this second shard stay in his grip, it brought itself into place against the first. They seemed to fit together, in an odd way. He was holding an increasingly great cluster of shards in his hand.

They would fit easily, of course—their size was irrelevant, compared to the limits of the power he could withstand holding. Or that was what he imagined was the case. No matter what, he didn't want to waste his energy, or his choice in shards.

Time continued to pass yet further. More heated shards came into view, and he grasped them. At some point, Logrolf wondered how much time had passed in Mundus, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His body had been brought above such trivial distractions, and the barrier around him would never be penetrated. Not unless he willed it—and until he was ready, he was content keeping the thing up. There was much more work to be done.

As this went on, he was collecting something like two of the shards of Aetherius for every shard of Oblivion. It seemed like a fair proportion. He couldn't describe why, really—something to do with balancing power and control, he didn't know—but it didn't matter. The details were probably something he wouldn't understand, at least not without losing the analogy of the shard-bearing waters. And so far, this was working.

This was working. The thought made him smile. On some level, it felt too good to be true, but at the same time, it most clearly wasn't. Maybe this was the Aurbis' way of balancing out the void that Boethiah had left. Logrolf could continue the reign of power in her name. She'd certainly taught the Nord plenty about how power worked.

After a time, Logrolf found himself wanting to ask questions once again. Not even particularly grand or lofty ones. They were more questions of what all these shards were doing here, and what he was doing with them himself. Because honestly, even now, he didn't entirely know. But there was no one to ask the questions to, and when he wondered about them himself, he had to remind himself not to try to see the Aurbis a different way as a result. Who even knew what his shard collection would turn into, if he did? He didn't want to guess, for his own sake.

And so he kept swimming through the thick, uncooperative water, and kept collecting shards. The cluster in his hand was growing larger and larger all the time. By the time he got to the ninth violent-type shard, the cluster was letting off enough heat that it seemed to warm up the water around it.

When he added this ninth shard, something happened. Some tipping point had been reached, some threshold had been met. But he felt the shards in his hand start moving. Not just shifting into place with each other, but… moving. Something else was controlling them.

" _Mmm… What is this?"_

The voice was a low, menacing rumble. Logrolf struggled to discern where he was hearing it from, before realizing that it was coming from within his own head. So the shards were responding to him. This was good. This meant he had something he could direct.

" _What am I? No. Who am I? This makes no sense—"_

"Silence," Logrolf said. And there was silence. He smiled. "You are my creation. You are nameless. You've been brought into being in order to assist me."

" _You,"_ the voice said. _"Who are you? A mortal… a mortal… interfering in the affairs of Aetherius?"_

The Nord shrugged blithely. "I wouldn't call it interfering. This conduit was a gift. And we're not in Aetherius, we're in… well, everything."

" _This… this… this conduit."_ Now the moving presence of the shards began to reach back through the tunnel into Mundus, the one Logrolf had been working through. It was hard to believe that this was truly happening. _"Where does this lead?"_

"Mundus. My home. Soon to be my domain, with you in tow. Do you obey me?"

" _Obey what? Strange for you to ask. … So many thoughts. Which of these are mine? Why did you make me like this?"_

That wasn't a yes. Logrolf supposed he couldn't expect blind obedience from an intelligent mind he'd just pulled out of nowhere. It was like conjuring an unbound denizen of Oblivion. It needed some reason to bend to its conjurer's will. Doubly fitting, since his new creation was about one-third made from Oblivion anyway.

"The answer is one long word, my precious little creation: Power. I've given it to you. Be careful. I can unmake you as easily as I made you."

" _You made me? What am I, now? What have you done?"_ The shards flared up angrily, all through the tunnel. _"So much of me is… wrong. I don't understand. You did something."_

"Yes, I created you," the Nord replied evenly. "All of you. You are mine. You'd best accept that, so we can move on."

" _No. You were supposed to put me back together. And you did it wrong. This new form is all wrong. I'm not me yet! I'm something else!"_ The voice rose in anger. _"What have you_ done?! _"_

He was supposed to put the voice back together. How many different Daedra had had tiny bits of them added to this cluster? This voice didn't belong to any of them. Honestly, Logrolf had hoped that adding all of the shards of Aetherius would have muted those little bits of identity. But he was starting to feel something he was sure countless thousands of mortals had felt before him—that he'd gotten into something whose consequences he didn't understand.

The voice was twisted in fury, yet it kept on speaking. _"This existence is wrong. I shouldn't be this way. I'll take from you … what you took from me. You don't deserve to exist. Neither does your Mundus. Maybe I can't unmake myself. But I'll unmake everything else."_

Logrolf knew fear when he felt it. But mainly, he just wondered if perhaps he should have kept switching through images of the Aurbis a bit longer. This shard business wasn't a perfect way of handling things.

He definitely might have made a mistake here. At this point, it seemed like a fair thing to say.

The shards coiled and leapt through the conduit with incredible force. The conduit's walls split and unraveled, light pouring in through unseen sources beyond. Logrolf didn't even have time to react.

When the shards emerged through this end, through the conduit into Mundus, the very first thing they did was to embrace him in their fire.


	14. Aicantar 3

Morndas, 6:18 PM, 18th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Solitude

It'd been twelve days since the Black Machine had taken Markarth. Twelve days since Aicantar had been freed from the grip of the Thalmor. It was amazing how much could happen in that span of time.

After all, here he was, walking through the gates of Solitude. His first time in Skyrim's capital. Or in any hold capital, besides Markarth. He'd made a vow to himself to give his inner scholar a break and just enjoy the sights, because otherwise, he'd spend all evening staring and drooling at all the Nordic architecture. It was really that magnificent. Even just walking in the gates, he knew he'd done the right thing by coming here.

That chat he'd had with those armored fellows, in Understone Keep, had changed everything. He'd left Markarth the very morning after the Black Machine's big attack. For some reason, he'd always expected that when he left Markarth for good—because he inevitably would have—he would've made a whole big deal out of it. But in the end, it wasn't much different than any other trip out of the city. Aicantar just gathered everything that he could fit into a single backpack, and set out with the carts heading to Solitude.

As an aside, saying goodbye to his uncle had been way easier than he would've liked. He wasn't sure the old mer would even notice he was gone. It was really for the best that his future was taking him someplace else.

Anyway, the carts actually weren't for riding in. A few infirm folk were, but mostly everybody was walking. The carts were piled high with supplies, mainly food—which turned out to be extremely necessary, because after the first day of walking through farms and fields, the Reach turned into a barren, gray wasteland. At first, Aicantar had thought he was dreaming or something. But no, this was just how the land looked now. The Thalmor had burned everything to ash.

Everyone seemed to be having the same sort of numb, vaguely horrified reaction to the landscape around them. Aicantar was getting that too. He was also feeling, as strange as this was, a bit of annoyance at the Thalmor for even deciding to do this. They'd razed an entire hold of Skyrim. Not just the towns and villages, but every last inch of the countryside, all the grass and dirt and everything, all of it just completely burnt up. It was almost kind of comical. Did the Thalmor _want_ everyone to hate them?

Anyway, the annoyance didn't do much to dull the impact of seeing so much death and ruin. Especially not when they were passing by places Aicantar had seen before. It was just all kinds of disturbing. Usually on a trip like this, people might've been chatting a lot, but everyone was just quiet. Aicantar couldn't even bring himself to feel much about the fact that he was going so far from home. The Reach was gone, none of that mattered. On the other hand, they had a pretty good distraction, because the stars were going crazy.

Besides all the legionnaires and such, there were about two hundred people following these wagons. But none of them, Aicantar included, could give a decent answer for what was happening. It started on the evening of the 9th. Some of the stars in the sky were just insanely bright, shining even as the sun was still setting on the horizon. And then the next evening, some different stars were insanely bright, and so on and so forth. It had been happening every night for the whole trip. The best anyone could guess was that someone was messing with magic again.

On the tenth day of travel, the burnt land finally stopped—they'd reached the northern border of the Reach, and entered the hold of Haafingar. That was an astonishing relief. Aicantar had cried actual tears when he first started seeing green grass again. It was a big moment for all of them, coming out of the Reach. It felt like finally escaping from under the last of the Thalmor's life-ruining shadow.

Later the same day, though, they crossed the Karth River over the Dragon Bridge, and passed through the eponymous town, which had given them a few things. Supplies, partly, and an awe-striking view of Solitude's river-spanning arch in the eastern distance, which was nice. And something that Aicantar hadn't gotten any of in months—news from the outside world. There was so much to catch up on.

But the newest of the lot was that the court wizards of Skyrim had been all monitoring the situation with the sky, and the matter of the stars was the least of their concerns. The sun wasn't moving through its yearly path anymore. Until it started moving again, they were stuck in the month of Second Seed, under the sign of the Shadow. And that was just strange. Aicantar didn't understand how they were going to start measuring dates now. It didn't seem like anyone else did either.

When he heard that, he wondered if his uncle had been watching the skies too. He _was_ one of Skyrim's court wizards, after all. And even though Aicantar had never been to any non-Markarth hold capital to see for himself, he sort of suspected that all of the other eight court wizards were as useless to their courts' day-to-day functions as Calcelmo was. They just did research. That was what they did.

Kind of like Aicantar himself, except no one had ever needed him to keep up appearances of productivity. He just did his work anyway.

It had occurred to him, more than once on this journey through the ash, that if it weren't for his chance encounter in Understone Keep, he might've been much less sure about his own future. Spellcasters usually didn't have trouble finding work, but he wouldn't have known where an Altmer like himself could even hope to live in peace. Except he'd had that chance encounter, and now he had a secret weapon hidden in his robes. It was going to change his whole world soon enough.

They arrived at Solitude on Morndas, around mid-evening, which meant the stars were starting to come out. There was a sizable camp on the hillside outside the city gates, with tents and food and all kinds of accommodations for the refugees from Markarth. Only when he saw it all laid out and waiting for him, only then, did Aicantar finally realize that he was a refugee too. He was going to have to fix that quickly.

It was very lucky that they'd arrived when they had. Morndas evening. Aicantar couldn't have planned that part of it better himself. He wouldn't have to wait very long at all. And he appreciated that all the more right now because it really, really did not feel good to be stuck on the move. Right now, strictly speaking, he didn't have a home, and that was a disturbing thought.

In any case, he skipped right past the camp and went for the city gates. Yes, he was tired, yes, he was hungry, but those things could wait. First, there was an errand to deal with.

Solitude seemed to be a sort of L shape, all in all. The front gates were at the end of the short arm, and then there were a bunch of streets full of shops. Then the big stone hulk of Castle Dour was on the corner, and to its right was the long arm of the L, which was mostly just all the houses—this part was Solitude's arch, the vast rocky plateau stretching across the river below, visible all the way from over in Dragon Bridge. And then finally, at the very end, was the Blue Palace, plain as could be, right out in the open. Not tucked away in some craggy mountainside. This whole city seemed a lot less confusing than Markarth, with all its tangled ramps and staircases. Aicantar could see how someone could get used to this place very quickly.

The streets were decently busy. There was a lot of clamoring city-noise, with people walking this way and that, moving carts around, going into shops, spending their evenings on whatever they chose. It reminded Aicantar of how Markarth had been before the Thalmor had taken over.

And it was nice, too. No one bothered him. He just walked down the street, backpack on his shoulders, past one shop after another, probably missing countless opportunities on the way to sell his skills as a mage. Because that was just where his priorities were right then, obviously.

But honestly, it didn't matter what was here in Solitude. His skills had already been reserved. And he'd told his inner scholar to be quiet for a reason—he wanted to enjoy his evening. Besides being hungry and tired and all, this was going fine. Just… just fine.

Admittedly, it'd probably help if he got something to eat at some point. Aicantar stopped in the middle of the street, passersby parting around him, and frowned in thought.

Three minutes later, he was walking down the street again, munching on a slice of bread topped with melted goat cheese. This was the best food he'd had in forever. He was still polishing the crumbs off his fingertips when he got to the base of Castle Dour.

There was a right turn in the road here, to get to the rest of the city. There was also a brief switchback of ramps to get up to Castle Dour. Aicantar took the ramps.

Up above, he could hear the sound of people training. Blades hitting wood, bows twanging away, commands being shouted. Military business. Someone was hammering out some steel on an anvil out here, up beside the gates. In a way, it was really reassuring, seeing this all at work. These people, this building, this was the Imperial Legion's home base in Skyrim. The ones whose job it was to oppose the Aldmeri Dominion.

Then again, it hadn't been the Legion to get the Aldmeri Dominion out of Markarth, it'd been the Black Machine. And Aicantar couldn't wait until he got to see _their_ home base. Still, though, Castle Dour. Here it was.

This was actually his first time entering a proper Imperial fortress. The stonework was all really huge and towering dark and foreboding. Fitting, for a place that was basically named Castle Unhappy. But for the Altmer's part, as he walked in through the gates, he couldn't help but smile. He even gave a little wave to the guards on duty. He belonged here.

That secret weapon in his robes was going to be really handy in a minute. All he had to do was find the right place to use it. A quick question to one of the soldiers nearby, and he was heading through the courtyard to the castle's inner doors, with two other soldiers escorting him along. He wasn't sure what the point of that was supposed to be. Surely, if he planned to do anything violent, he wouldn't let two rank-and-file legionnaires stop him.

As they brought him inside, it occurred to him that that was a terrible way to think of Skyrim's protectors. Like they were just some kind of minor inconvenience. It must've been because that was how the Dominion had treated them. And the Legion had never proven them otherwise. Maybe they were doing a better job down in Cyrodiil.

All the surfaces in here were the same dark stone, besides the hanging banners he'd been seeing for the Empire and Haafingar. They were in a spacious sort of antechamber area, with exits off to the front and right. From the right, Aicantar could hear a bunch of noise—more specifically, the sound of lots of men dining and drinking. The barracks, he guessed. Where all the regular soldiers were. That meant he'd be heading forwards.

And head forwards he did. There was another room here, with more exits, but also an area by the back wall with one of those big map-bearing tables. Light was shining on it from windows above, just a bit, but at this time of evening, the castle was mainly lit by candles.

There was one person standing over the map. An Imperial man, dressed in tastefully gilded plate armor from the neck down. He was an older fellow, with stern, rugged features, and short gray hair like Legion officers often had. His armor was glimmering menacingly in the candlelight.

Aicantar swallowed. He knew who he was looking at. For all his thoughts of the Legion's failings, this man was a giant. His name had been known in Markarth long before the war with the Dominion had broken out.

"General Tullius," one of his escorts said. "The first convoy from Markarth has returned. This elf was one of the civilians. He requested your personal audience."

"And now he has it," the general spoke. His tone was calm and even, but there was a gruff edge to it that spoke of years of experience. What a _presence_ this man had. And the two of them were looking right at each other. "What's your name?"

The Altmer fumbled for words. "Uh—I'm… My name is Aicantar, sir. I have a message for you, from Legate Rikke. Or—well, I think, uh…"

Tullius turned away from the map and took a couple of steps towards him, looking him over appraisingly. "Well, let's not waste time, then. What's the message?"

This was the moment he'd been waiting for. In response to the question, he reached into his robes, and pulled out the sealed letter he'd been carrying on him. Thankfully, the robes were loose enough that the paper hadn't gotten really wrinkled. That would've been embarrassing.

Tullius wordlessly accepted and opened the letter, then brought it over to some of the candles to read it over. A minute passed in tense silence. He looked up at Aicantar at one point, his eyebrows raised curiously. Then he finished the letter, folded it up, and set it down on the table.

"I'm pleased to read that the liberation of Markarth went so smoothly," he said. Then, to Aicantar's escorts: "Thank you. Return to your posts."

The two legionnaires gave a quick yes-sir and headed off on their way. There were still guards in here, but it was now official: Aicantar now had General Tullius' undivided attention. A lot could change in twelve days.

He asked, "It is lucky that I arrived on this day of the week, isn't it?"

Tullius nodded. "We'll provide you with overnight lodging."

"Really? Isn't there an… an inn that I should be staying at, or something?" He'd gotten that bread thing at one, after all. It'd been a few buildings down on the left as he'd come through the gates.

But the Imperial general just shook his head. "There's only one privately owned inn in Solitude, and you'd be well-advised not to spend your time there. We offer the hospitality of Castle Dour whenever we can."

Odd of him to say. The inn hadn't looked that bad when Aicantar had stopped in it. Still, he just said the first thing that came to mind. "That sounds like an easy invitation for any curious Thalmor informants."

Tullius exhaled sharply. That might've been a sound of amusement. Kind of hard to tell. This man obviously wasn't the smiling type. "If the most we had to worry about on that front were a few nosy guests, I wouldn't have much of a job to do." Then he looked around the room, and nodded to one of the guards. "See that this elf is accommodated."

"By your orders, General," said the guard in question, before coming up to Aicantar's side and looking him over. "Follow me, please."

General Tullius was already returning his attention to the map. Or, no—he was returning his attention to the map table, which he'd set the letter down on. He was actually rereading it. For some reason, Aicantar had expected him to do something much more dramatic, like burn it up with one of the candles. But no, he was just standing there and reading it over again. That was nice. And a little odd.

The guest accommodations were surprisingly numerous. There was a whole corridor full of them. Doors on the left, doors on the right. Lots of rooms. Aicantar guessed that they were usually meant for people visiting on Legion business, maybe to see family or colleagues. Something like that. But he got shown to his own room quickly enough, with his own guest key and everything. And then he just as quickly got left there by himself.

Aicantar closed and locked the door behind himself. Great. Now what?

The room wasn't very big. Bed, desk, trunk, basin, tiny window. Nice view of the city. Much nicer than the actual room. It was nice and warm in here, but it felt more gloomy than cozy. Now that he wasn't busy talking to _the_ General Tullius, Aicantar was getting to really take in the interior of this place. He had grown up around Dwemer buildings, and being inside those had always felt like he was in part of a giant machine. Being inside Castle Dour felt more like he was in part of a giant crypt.

Maybe he actually was. Either way, he wasn't complaining. He might've sated his hunger, but he was dead tired, and there was a bed right here. Joining the ranks of the eternally-supine draugr or whatever would be just fine. He stripped down to his smalls and pretty much crashed onto the mattress. This was the first time sleeping in a bed besides his own in years. It felt different here, it sounded different here. Smelled different, even. Smelled like old wood and stone, pretty much. Aicantar tried to ignore that all as best he could, and just focus on getting some rest in.

After a minute, the Altmer sat up in bed, spat a curse, put his clothes back on, went back out into the hallway and spent five minutes looking for the privy. _Then_ he went back to bed.

When he woke up again, the sun was shining in through the window and putting a mottled square of light on the door. He could still hear people going about their business outside. Quite a different noise to the hum of Dwemer machinery, that was for sure.

He went about his morning routine in a bleary silence. Washed up in the basin, got into his change of smallclothes, put his outfit and backpack on again. He was really hungry. But when he opened up the door and stepped out all into the hallway, all he had to do was follow the breakfast smell. Clearly, the Legion had the same idea that he did.

Ultimately, he ended up bumping into some legionnaire on the way downstairs, and receiving some extra instructions. There was a common dining hall for most of the soldiers, but the officers had their own, separate space, which was also used for guests like himself. Aicantar felt extremely special.

A few more hallways and staircases later, Aicantar was in a spacious room overlooking the castle courtyard, with a few not-quite-long tables and even more of those banners everywhere. The tables were plain wood, but Aicantar bet that if they'd had tablecloths, they'd have the Imperial dragon icon on them.

Only a few people were actually in the room. Officers, presumably, mostly just sitting around and eating. The breakfast smell was very deliciously strong in here. The officers barely acknowledged him. One of them was standing by the back window, looking down into the courtyard, not eating anything. Tullius, of course. He didn't acknowledge Aicantar either.

It felt like he was barging in on some sort of insular cabal of Imperialness. He cleared his throat and walked inside a few paces. "Excuse me, uh… I've been told I can have breakfast here?"

Everyone stopped and looked at him. Even Tullius turned around. Aicantar promptly felt the need to shrink into a tiny ball and die.

After a beat, one of the officers—a Redguard woman, it looked like—said, "Sit down, elf," then called in a raised voice, "Food and drink for this one!"

A servant poked his head in through an unobtrusive side door just long enough to answer, "Yes, Tribune!"

Aicantar stood there for a moment, just sort of gawking, before realizing that he was supported to sit down now. For lack of any better ideas, he sat down opposite the officer who'd spoken.

Everyone slowly resumed doing what they'd been doing. Aicantar asked the officer. "How did you know my name?"

"We all know it," the officer said. She sort of reminded Aicantar of Legate Rikke. All cool and collected and matter-of-fact. "There are many need-to-know secrets around here, but the identity of the mysterious elven mage in our castle isn't one of them. Much better that we recognize you than that we don't."

"But I'm only planning on being here just this once," Aicantar mumbled, kind of sheepishly. That felt rude even as he was saying it.

"Yes, well, you haven't seen what we do to elven mages we don't recognize inside our castle." The officer smirked and took a swig of whatever was in her mug. She'd mostly finished her breakfast, but whatever it was, it looked like it'd been good.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I caught _your_ name…?"

"Tribune Sennea." She gave the Altmer a respectful nod. "You're one of the Dragonborn's."

"Well—no. Sort of. Maybe? Not yet. The Black Machine got me out of Markarth. They did that for a lot of people."

Sennea smiled a little bit. "They did more than that, you realize. Skyrim is no longer the battleground of the Dominion. This is a much-needed respite for us all."

"But they haven't sent anyone else from Markarth to their stronghold," Tullius said, turning around once more. He walked slowly towards the edge of the table as he talked. "Only you. You're one of his now, whether you like it or not."

"Well, I… _think_ I like it," Aicantar managed to get out. He was right around the middle of the table's length. Tullius was coming pretty close to him. It was more than a little intimidating. He looked between Tullius and Sennea, unsure what to say.

Tullius said, "I'm certainly not one to pry into the Dragonborn's affairs. I trust that he's acting in the Empire's best interests. First Windhelm, then Labyrinthian, then here in Solitude, now in Markarth. If I didn't know better, I'd say he must have been planning to seize the throne. But I've never seen a downside about the man's actions."

Windhelm must have been when the Dragonborn ended the Stormcloak Rebellion. And of course Aicantar knew about Markarth. He dismissed those and focused on the obvious one: "What happened here?"

"Sheogorath happened," said Sennea. "He used his artifact, the Wabbajack, to spawn a ghostly army of Dremora within the city walls. It was like the Oblivion Crisis all over again, but the Black Machine had twenty of its Gears here."

Tullius cut in. "One hundred and twenty-two people died that day. Thirty-one of them legionnaires. But there are more than thirty thousand citizens of Solitude, and we could have lost them all. The Dragonborn gave us a tiny handful of men, and they saved this city from annihilation. Jarl Elisif has made a point of thanking them."

The servant came back in with a nice big tray full of food and drink, and laid it down at Aicantar's place. This looked like excellent food. Two fried eggs, laid on toasted bread halves, an assortment of fresh fruit, some golden-looking beverage in a silver goblet—he felt like he was eating like royalty. They hadn't had food like this in Markarth in months. He murmured a word of thanks to the servant, then took a sip of the beverage.

It had a bit of a kick to it. The Nords sure knew how to start off their mornings. He tried not to let his reaction show as he looked between the two officers. "That's… Wait a minute. Elisif the Fair is still just a jarl? I thought you would've made her High Queen by now."

Tullius and Sennea glanced at one another. Aicantar wasn't sure what that was about. All the same, Tullius was the one to reply. "In order to choose the new ruler of Skyrim, the jarls need to convene in a Moot. Until recently, this was impossible, because Markarth was in enemy hands. Eight out of nine jarls present isn't good enough. Once Markarth has had its new leader appointed, _then_ we can proceed. I'm sure Jarl Elisif will be thanking the Black Machine for that too."

Aicantar nodded thoughtfully. He didn't know much about politics, or even about Skyrim's traditions, but it made sense that they wouldn't want to make such a big decision without Markarth's say. Of course the Dragonborn's influence would be in it somehow, though. It was getting a little odd, just how pervasive that was. "I hope this hasn't made you feel too upstaged."

Sennea took over again. "Less than you'd think. The Black Machine is the new spearhead of the Empire, whether it's official or not. In some ways, they're what the Blades once were. But in both cases, they're of little use on their own. A spearhead's not much use without the rest of the spear backing it up."

"The Black Machine specializes in fast, hard strikes," Tullius said. "They're not built to hold the line. No matter how skilled, a hundred and fifty men can't maintain order and security in an entire hold, let alone an entire province. We'll let the Dragonborn's pet project take credit for the grand victories, and in the meantime, we'll keep doing our duty to the Emperor."

Aicantar gave Tullius a close look. The man was watching him attentively, waiting for his reaction. And as they observed each other, Aicantar was hit with a sudden realization. He was extremely, impossibly lucky. Tens of thousands of people lived in Markarth, and he was the only single one to be sitting here. He was getting a level of attention reserved for actual professional associates of the Legion. And he'd done it all by happening to be Calcelmo's nephew, and happening to be rescued by a Black Gear during the retaking of Markarth.

He had some big shoes to fill. This was going to take a lot of thinking to get through. On some level, he wanted to be grateful for all his good luck, but he didn't even know whom to thank. Obviously not Tullius. The Legion was not interested in his sentimental moment.

In the end, all he said was, "Why are you bothering to tell all of this to me? I'm just a civilian passing through. You don't need to spend your time on me."

Tullius didn't miss a beat. "In essence, I want to give you a sense of perspective. You're the first person who's come through Castle Dour on their way to Alftand in months. Call it an exercise in diplomatic relations." He said those last couple of words with a bit of a mocking tone. Then he added, "Besides, we have to wait for Odahviing to arrive."

"True," Aicantar nodded. "I'll just, uh… finish this, real quick." He gave his breakfast tray an indeterminate wave.

The general nodded silently and went on back to his window. Sennea went back to sipping her drink.

The breakfast _was_ really tasty. Aicantar could get spoiled on this kind of food. Or at least just put on a lot of weight. Presumably all of these Legion types just went through such rigorous training that they actually needed the energy.

Halfway through, he asked, "You fellows ever try having milk with your breakfast? It's quite filling."

Sennea said, "You know, when the Nords go on about the milk-drinking Imperials, that's not what they mean."

Someone behind the Altmer chuckled under their breath. He didn't look, he just kept eating. It was probably better if he didn't try to keep talking.

He was still working through the fruit when it happened. A shadow passed silently over the window, bringing the room into darkness for a split second. He looked on out of it just in time to see a flash of something huge and red. Then, a quarter second later, there was a tremendous, booming impact through the ground, so huge that Aicantar felt it in his seat.

Tullius peered out the window, then nodded and started across the room, towards the doors. "That's him."

"Well, all right, then," Aicantar said, trying to keep his voice steady. He stood up. He had to keep the rest of himself steady too. Sure, he'd seen Markarth occupied for a few months, and then seen some of it explode in a big fireball, but this was different. It seemed like dragons were their own sort of spectacle.

Tullius turned and followed him out. "I'll need to explain this to him," he said, pulling a piece of paper—not the letter from Markarth, a different one—from a belt pouch. "I have a briefing to give him every week. You're the last item on it."

Aicantar gave the piece of paper a brief look as they walked. "Is that a list of things to tell him?"

"Well, yes," the general said, blankly.

The Altmer smiled and shook his head. Imperials and their lists. It just never stopped.

Soon enough, they'd reached the exit to the courtyard. Tullius pulled the doors open and strode out into the sunlight, leaving Aicantar to follow him. And outside, sitting there on the stone courtyard surface, there was a dragon. An entire dragon. Right there, in front of him.

The thing that really got him was the size. He'd seen a lot of strange-looking things before, and compared to some of them, this wasn't bad. Red scales on top, gray scales below, big rough scales, winged forelimbs. But the biggest thing he'd ever seen to count as its own 'creature' was a Dwemer centurion, and this dragon could've bitten one of those in half. He was taking up an actual majority of the courtyard he was in. Landing within the walls of Castle Dour must've felt to this dragon like landing within the walls of a broom closet.

This was Odahviing. The dragon who visited Castle Dour every Tirdas morning. It was part of the Empire's strategic arrangement with the Dragonborn. They traded intelligence this way, and, when needed, they traded objects too. Or passengers, at the moment. Aicantar just tried not to make himself obvious.

The dragon turned his massive, horned, spiked head towards the two of them. "General Tullius," he said. Yes, he just spoke. The dragon currently in Castle Dour was now speaking. His voice was inhumanly great and deep, no surprise there, but he was pronouncing the words perfectly. "Ill news from the realm of Aetherius."

So this was how the children of Akatosh, the aspects of Time itself, were doing these days. Having serious strategic talks with the Imperial Legion. It stood to reason, Aicantar supposed. The Dragonborn was a loyal supporter of the Empire, according to pretty much everyone who'd talked about him so far. And the dragons served the Dragonborn.

"Odahviing," Tullius nodded respectfully, as he closed to what amounted to conversation distance. "I presume you're talking about the business with the stars?"

Aicantar realized that the legionnaires had a scribe sitting nearby, writing on a piece of paper. They were actually taking _notes_ on this conversation.

The dragon replied, "My fellow dovah have witnessed two more falling from the sky. But it has finally come to my attention how this all came to be. The Dovahkiin has achieved the state of CHIM. Most of the planes of Oblivion have been erased from existence by his will."

Well. That was the biggest news anyone would ever give to anyone. Aicantar didn't even feel that affected by it. It was just too big. He found himself rather wondering which planes had been spared. Hopefully not Coldharbour.

It was nice to hear that the Dragonborn had reached CHIM, though. That basically meant he was as powerful as a mortal could ever be. And obviously he'd been putting his power to use. Good for him, pretty much.

Tullius looked down at his list, then sighed and put it away. That seemed like a fair reaction to this. "So how does this mean anything for Aetherius? I thought that plane was… separate, from Oblivion."

"It is." Odahviing dipped his head in a sort of nod. "Yet without the veil of Oblivion to separate it from Mundus, the presence of magic is unfolding in unpredictable ways. Without a doubt, it was wise of the Dovahkiin to make his move as he did. The Daedra have caused far too much suffering for your kind over the eras. We must be prepared for unexpected consequences."

Tullius asked, "What else do you know?"

"This occurred roughly one month past. The changes in the connections to Aetherius took time to progress, and with time, they will surely change further in the future. Yet the change in the stars does not seem to be such a gradual progression. It took place between one night and the next. Knowing the cause of these anomalies, we suspect that a presence is actively influencing the path of Aetherius above us."

"A new enemy, then. Why hasn't the Dragonborn destroyed it, like he did with Oblivion?"

"I do not know. Possibly, his power has diminished in the wake of his actions. Or perhaps it is being truly tested to its limit even now, by a new ongoing trial. I will bring you more knowledge as we learn of it ourselves. But until then, you and your army must remain vigilant. The mortals of Mundus may not be in imminent danger, but dark tidings approach us." Odahviing paused. "And so ends my news. What have you for me?"

Tullius took a visible breath in. "Odahviing, the Dragonborn's associates have a request for you. They want you to take this elven mage to Alftand." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Aicantar. "He was found in Markarth. He may be of value of them."

"Very well." Odahviing shifted his attention to the Altmer. His head looked a little strange from directly in front. There was a great view of his nose, that was for sure. "What is your name, mortal?"

"Aicantar," he said. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to add more than that. A dragon was talking to him. He'd expected this, just like he'd expected to talk to Tullius, but it still felt insane. Especially after the news he'd just heard. He swallowed, opened his mouth, and tried to make some words happen. Nothing really happened.

The dragon turned his head, almost inquisitively. "I am Odahviing. Do not be afraid, Aicantar. I have no desire to do you harm."

Were dragons normally this gentle? Aicantar understood them to have once ruled Skyrim with a grip of ruthless tyranny. Kind of like what he'd seen in Markarth, maybe. They'd demanded complete submission and sacrifice from the mortals beneath them. They obeyed the Dragonborn now, but only because power was everything to them. That was what he knew. So this was feeling… a little strange.

But he didn't want to voice all his thoughts quite like they were. He settled for a much more diplomatic, "You seem very concerned with the well-being of us mortals."

"The Dovahkiin taught us much," Odahviing said. "Above all else has been the mortal concept of empathy. It has proven itself to give purpose to a precarious existence."

Empathy. _That_ was what the Dragonborn had been doing? First he'd saved Skyrim from the dragons, then he'd taught them to be nice? Apparently, it'd actually worked. Aicantar wished that it could work as easily with mortals.

On the other hand, that last sentence… "What's precarious now? I thought you were immortal."

But Odahviing actually shook his head. He just wagged it left and right, like a person, except bigger. Seemed like he'd learned a bit about how mortals did their gestures. "Our bodies can still be destroyed. The Dovahkiin now has the power to raise us, but we remain of an uncertain future. And given a long enough test of Time, uncertainty always yields its worst outcome. I cannot speak for all other dovah, but I no longer care to cause any suffering. Life is fleeting and precious, Aicantar. Let all of us remember that."

Aicantar's mouth hung open. He had no words for this. He just… He had no words.

"I will bring you to Alftand," the dragon continued. "When you are ready, climb upon my back. It is safe to ride."

The Altmer took a slow, silent look around the courtyard. Solitude. He'd only known it for half a day, and it'd been a completely new experience. Now he was about to embark on another still. His life was changing more and more quickly all the time. He wondered if it was like this for everyone, at the center of the big things in Mundus.

Because yes, by all appearances, he was getting near the center of the big things in Mundus now. That thought was up there with the Dragonborn wiping out most of Oblivion. It was just too big for him to feel anything about.

Of course, in the meantime, he was supposed to ride a dragon across practically the whole province of Skyrim. This was probably going to be an amazing view.

General Tullius was looking at him expectantly. Aicantar walked up to the Imperial slowly.

"It's been an honor meeting you, General," he said. He was very aware of the fact that there was a dragon waiting for him about fifteen feet away. But he had to do this. "I don't know why you've considered me so worthy of your attention. I really appreciate it."

Tullius gave him a long, thoughtful look. A few seconds went by like that. Then he said, "This isn't the first time I've sent someone to join the Dragonborn's cause in Alftand. The last time I did, the person ended up becoming one of the most crucial heroes of our time. You have some peerless opportunities ahead of you, Aicantar. Use them wisely."

And then he nodded once, and backed off. Aicantar's mouth was hanging open again. Partly because he'd gotten the exact same advice from that Black Gear, the Orc named Blaz, back in Markarth. And partly because he knew he'd just witnessed General Tullius showing a kind of personal compassion that he had absolutely no reputation for.

Odahviing was waiting. Seemed like it was time to go. Aicantar walked around him slowly. This really was a huge creature. He wasn't sure how to get on, so he just reached up and grabbed onto the dragon's spinal ridges—he was touching a dragon with his bare hands now, this was incredible—and tried to pull himself up. Odahviing rolled towards him a little bit to make it easier. After a moment of clambering, both of the Altmer's feet were off the ground, and he was on a mythical being's back.

Entering the city of Solitude, he'd gotten the distinct feeling that leaving behind his home in Markarth had been the right choice. But now, leaving the city of Solitude the very next day, he was realizing that he had no idea how wondrous his life was going to become. And he couldn't wait to explore it.

"Hold on," Odahviing said, and then with a great sweep of his wings, they were in the air. Aicantar's stomach lurched, but he didn't feel sick in the slightest. In fact, he'd never felt better.

The view was incredible from up here.


	15. Ria 3

Morndas, 9:38 AM, 18th of Second Seed, 4E 202

South Skybound Watch

Ria and Erik had been ascending this mountain for barely an hour. Maybe it was because she was an Imperial, and didn't have Erik's amazing Nord blood, but they'd been at this for only an hour and she was already freezing her butt off. This was not fair. She had a bunch of heavy furs on and everything. At least they wouldn't have to be doing this for long.

Most people thought that the only way up to the Throat of the World was by taking the Seven Thousand Steps, starting in the village of Ivarstead. That was wrong, and for Ria's purposes, actually pretty pointless. They weren't going to Ivarstead. Not even close.

A bit of geography: Ivarstead was off the eastern edge of the mountainside, and Whiterun was all the way to the mountain's northwest. Because there was a giant steaming pit called Eastmarch right to Whiterun's east, the only sensible path from Whiterun to Ivarstead was to circle all the way counterclockwise, down past Riverwood and Helgen, and then through a stupidly long mountain pass around the south, only to turn around at Ivarstead and double back clockwise a little higher up the slope.

So yes, very pointless. A huge waste of time. But thankfully, Ria was in the Companions, and that meant she'd learned about a shortcut. It was called Skybound Watch. Two little abandoned outposts on the southwest mountainside—a south one, and a north one—connected by a long, underground passage. They were little more than sentry towers, but they made all the difference for getting to High Hrothgar.

North Skybound Watch, as it was called, opened up a good way up the side of the mountain. The clockwise-running Seven Thousand Steps were another good way _past_ it, meaning there were still a few hundred feet of steep rock face in the way, but one of Vilkas' very first acts as Harbinger had been to pay a few professional stonecutters and mountaineers to chisel some handholds and platforms into the rock. A new shortcut up the western face of the mountain—it would shave almost a week off their journey, at the cost of having to take a somewhat riskier route. Nothing a couple Companions couldn't handle.

South Skybound Watch was perched on the mountainside itself, but not nearly as high. The road to it started just east of Helgen, around where the pointless long southern mountain pass began. It'd started all nice and green and grassy, too. But they'd been coming up this road for an hour, and now there was snow and ice everywhere. On the other hand, the tower had become visible. Just a silhouette in the distance, for now, but still—visible.

It was only going to get colder from here. Ria was starting to wonder if she should've sprung for one of those frost resistance items at the Riverwood Trader. She probably hadn't even brought enough gold with her from Jorrvaskr, but she could dream.

Plus, they were Companions, which meant they could just go kill a few bandits somewhere nearby, and go back to Dragonsreach to collect the bounty, and actually that idea didn't make any sense. Ria was just cold. And Erik wasn't saying anything. This bothered her.

She broke the silence with, "So, what hold are we in now, technically?" It obviously didn't matter for anything, she just wanted to talk. Anything to distract her from the cold.

"I don't know. I think Falkreath Hold." Erik pointed up to the right, to the peak of the Throat of the World. It was so close by that it actually didn't look all that tall, just really long. "I guess at some point we'll go back up north into Whiterun Hold. Of course, if we kept going towards Ivarstead, we'd go into the Rift. This mountain spans all three of them."

"You know your maps, I see."

"You're just saying that because nobody remembers Falkreath Hold exists."

Ria just nodded appreciatively. "Aye, most likely. I've seen the Empire's list of the nine holds of Skyrim. They seem to sometimes treat them like the Nine Divines, in that they pretend that there are actually eight."

Erik made a show of suppressing a laugh. "That joke would have worked a lot better a year ago."

That was a strangely thought-provoking remark. A lot of things had been completely different a year ago. Not just the laws around Talos worship. There hadn't been any dragons, either. And the Circle had still been around. And Ria hadn't even joined the Companions yet! Times changed a lot.

It was also thought-provoking because while there had previously been—according to the Empire—eight Divines and nine holds in Skyrim, there were now nine Divines and basically eight holds. These days, the Reach was little more than a sad story in the past tense.

In any case, it looked like the road was going to go past the tower, and then turn left and switch back up to its entrance. They were surrounded by trees and snowy ice and rocks. Higher up on the mountain, it was just snowy ice and rocks.

After a few seconds, Erik went on. "I actually have an amulet of Talos from before the war. I don't want to take my things off to show you right now, but it's really ornate. It's made of solid ebony."

Ria whistled. "Ebony, for an amulet. How did that happen?"

"Uh… An adventurer gave it to me. I bumped into him outside Rorikstead. He was actually the one to recommend I join the Companions in the first place."

"It wasn't…" Ria dropped her voice to a dramatic murmur. "the _Dragonborn_ , was it?"

"What? … No, just some giant of a man in ebony armor. Called himself the Ebony Warrior." Erik shook his head, smiling, and then just stared off into space for a second. "I wonder what _he's_ up to these days."

"Saving up for a new amulet of Talos, probably."

Erik laughed, but didn't say anything in reply.

They were getting closer, at least. Ria's understanding was that the Skybound Watch Pass, between the two watchtowers, had been full of all kinds of nasty stuff before Vilkas cleaned up the place. She was still kind of expecting there to be bandits everywhere. With any luck, she'd be able to send them off to go get beaten up more by Vilkas and the others in Sovngarde.

Because bandits obviously went to Sovngarde. Especially the non-Nord ones. That made sense.

Actually, serious point, there: Ria had noticed that there were way more non-Nords in bandit forts than in cities. Especially Khajiit, since there were _none_ of those in Skyrim's cities, by law. And that was kind of sad. The only places where they could get roofs over their heads were bandit forts.

Of course, on the other hand, skooma. Enough said.

After a little bit, Erik said, "You know, I've heard that on the Throat of the World's peak, the snow is so cold that it'll never melt. As in, it can't melt. Even if you brought it down to Whiterun, it'd keep being snow."

Ria gave the Nord a look. "So if you heated some in a pot over the hearth, it'd just keep being cold snow?"

The Nord gave her a look back. "You're aware that I can't exactly test it out, right?"

"I bet Shor uses it to keep his mead cool."

"Yes, because Shor drinks mead," Erik nodded, grinning. "All right."

" _We_ drink mead, don't we?" Shor wasn't really the Nord god, just more the god of the races of men, but he did run Sovngarde. That had to count for something. Just like Ria wasn't really a Nord, just a Companion of Whiterun. If that didn't count for something, no one had told her yet.

Erik waggled a hand indecisively. "Ehhh… Not so much these days. When I first came to Whiterun, I was all over Honningbrew, but the newer stuff just doesn't taste the same. I think they changed the recipe."

"I hear some places were putting juniper berries in their mead, once," Ria said. " _That's_ due for a change."

Juniper berries basically only grew in the Reach. And the Reach had basically only produced juniper berries. The whole countryside had been crammed full of them. Ria had to wonder how many juniper plants were actually left in Tamriel. Probably four or five or so.

It'd be nice if everything didn't have these grim reminders in the background. Vilkas was dead, the Reach was a ruin, there'd been a ban on Talos worship until two successive wars had started over it. Ria was waiting for something to remind her of something happy.

And of course, in the meantime, she was still cold. Her hands were firmly bundled up beneath the edges of her cloak. It was already starting to get windy. She'd been told there were a bunch of ropes and such to use for the climbing portion, or else she would've been genuinely worried about the cold making her fingers too clumsy to hold on safely. Vilkas had seen that coming, apparently. She wished the Circle were still around. They'd all been so good at what they did.

Then Ria caught herself. Those grim reminders weren't going to get any less grim if she dwelt on them all the time. They really were pesky. Did all warriors have so much trouble thinking about things? Or did they just power through it with strength and honor? Ria felt like there was some kind of trick she hadn't learned yet, for how to live with so much sad stuff.

Suddenly, Erik said urgently, "Did you see that?"

Ria turned to him for a moment, then looked around herself as they walked. Nothing. "What did you see?"

"I'm not sure. Something." The Nord reached back and unslung his bow, slowing down to a quiet, wary pace. He was already nocking an arrow.

So Ria followed suit. She had a bow of her own, after all, on top of the fur cloak and the pack and the rest of it. Supposedly, any arrows from it would scorch the target, like a fire spell would, but she hadn't practiced with it much. Soul gems were expensive.

Just as the Imperial was nocking her own arrow, she saw what Erik had been talking about. A floating, white-blue teardrop of light, streaming and swirling through the air like it was underwater. Or not a teardrop, more like a tadpole, with a glowing white head and a few silvery tendrils for a body. It was obviously a living thing of some kind, but it was ignoring them. It might've been twenty, maybe thirty yards up the road. Hard to tell, since it was in the air. But it was just swishing around up there, doing nothing of note.

"Well, that's new," Ria murmured, before Erik's hand grabbed her arm and pulled her down to her knees.

"Get down," he hissed, joining the Imperial on the ground. "That's a wisp. We need to get out of here, now."

A wisp. Ria hadn't heard that term much, but she knew enough to know what it meant. It meant there was a wispmother somewhere nearby. And she knew enough about _those_ that she understood Erik's dragging her down. Wispmothers never let their charges stray far from them. And in a fight… Well, Ria was cold enough as it was.

What were the odds? Not an hour and a half up some barely-beaten mountain path, and this was what they found? Ria wasn't sure how afraid she was supposed to be right now, but she guessed she wasn't afraid enough.

Ria settled into a readied crouch. Her voice stayed at a whisper. "Do we want to fight this?"

"Ivarstead is sounding like a good idea right now," Erik whispered back. "Not worth the risk."

The wisp was still just floating around up there. It might've been getting closer, but it was still in the air, so that was hard to tell. At least now Ria knew what they looked like, so in the future she could just run for her life at first sight.

No use in having the bow out, at this point. She stowed the arrow, then the bow itself, glancing to Erik with an apologetic shrug. It looked like he was doing the same.

A long, quiet second went by. The two Companions were just looking at each other. The only sound in the air was the wind, and a faint, ethereal tinkling chime, somewhere nearby. It was putting Ria on edge in a way she couldn't describe.

Erik seemed to be hearing the same thing. He closed his eyes for a second, and let out a sigh. "… It's right behind us, isn't it?"

Ria didn't bother to wait. She leapt forward, tucked and rolled on the ice, and broke into a sprint right as she got up. Three ice spikes were flying through the air ahead of her, where she'd been just a second before. There was no time to look back. They had to move. She could congratulate herself for making that very well-timed roll later.

This could work, she reasoned. It could work. The wispmother was behind them—gods, there was actually a real wispmother right behind them—but they could probably outrun it, and get to the watchtower, and that'd take them to safety. They just had to move. Fortunately, her Shield-Brother was running right by her side. This wouldn't be a good time for them to slow down.

That was what she was thinking when the wisp came at them. It was closer than she'd thought.

Honestly, Ria wasn't sure what she'd expected this thing to be able to do. It'd just been floating around in the air, looking rather innocuous, almost playful. But now, it was coming straight at them, like a big glowing arrow, and all Ria could think of were the words 'deadly purpose'. She drew her sword without even stopping her run. If this thing wanted a fight, that was what it'd get.

She dodged its first strike. The thing had those silvery tendrils on it, and they narrowed down to three pointed prongs on the front. It charged at her with those aimed forward, and she ducked out of the way. She felt an icy chill on her neck and ear as the wisp flew over her left shoulder. And before she could even turn around to it, Erik moved in.

It looked like the Nord had his sword out too. He brought it into both hands, coming down with a ferocious overhead chop, with all his strength behind it, right as the wisp's tail was still passing Ria by. She could hear the sword swinging right through the air … and not hitting anything. The blade passed harmlessly through the trailing light.

So the head was probably the vulnerable spot. That, or it was completely ethereal and they were wasting their time.

Ria turned to her right, sword at the ready. But the sword never got that far. Her steel-clad elbow cracked into something hard. It was the wisp. The thing was too close. It'd already turned around! Her armor kept her safe, she thought, but there was still a jolt of cold through her arm as the wisp recoiled away.

It was at this point that she got her first glimpse of the wispmother. It looked a lot less scary than she'd expected. It was just a pale, ghostly-looking version of a robed woman, floating maybe a foot in the air. The robe's near-white fabric looked like it was floating around her body, too, as much as that didn't make any sense. But the creature was coming closer, gliding on up the road after them. They had to move.

Then, as she turned to face the wisp again, two things happened at the same time. From where she was standing, Ria could see both. She shouldn't have been able to take in so much so quickly, but she'd been trained for this. It all happened in less than a second, but she saw everything, and knew what she had to do.

Next to her, Erik came around for another punishing swing, and since the wisp was still stunned from the elbow strike, this swing hit its mark. The wisp burst apart in a harmless release of light, and a lifeless, rocky-looking pale blue ball of wispy-stuff dropped to the ground. And at the same time, the wispmother made an elegant, sweeping gesture with her arms, and sent three more ice spikes flying straight at Erik's side.

Ria had no time to warn him. But she was already turning around, and her arm was already uncoiling, in what would've been a sword strike against the now-destroyed wisp. So she lunged straight out to the side, keeping her sword carefully pointed forward, and shoved hard into Erik's breastplate. For a split second, she was actually pressing the hilt of her sword against the steel armor's surface. And then Erik was stumbling back, and the ice spikes were flying by between them.

Or that's what Ria had thought they would do. One of them ended up hitting her, right in the wrist. And she actually watched it happen to herself. It didn't stay solid like a regular ice spike spell, but burst and splashed apart against her gauntlet. The armor took the worst of it, but oh, did she feel the rest. She felt it. It hurt for a second, and then it was just numb.

Her sword fell and landed silently in the snow. She couldn't believe how much that'd gotten her. Erik was shouting something, snatching up the sword in his free hand, pointing up the road. Ria got the idea. They both kept running, Erik with two swords now, Ria clutching at her arm. Was she scared? Maybe a little bit. Was that a factor in her running away? Hopefully not. She could contemplate this later.

They weren't sprinting now, they were moving evasively, erratically, zig-zagging their way towards the switchback. More ice spikes flew through the air between them. The corner wasn't far away. After just a few seconds, Ria began to feel her wrist and hand again. They weren't just freezing cold, they were tingling, uncomfortably. There'd been more in that spike than pure plain frost.

If she made it out of this alive, she was going to train to fight with her sword left-handed. She'd never tried before. Now she was seeing why some people did.

The corner was close by. Maybe fifteen seconds of running, and that'd be it. They'd take it left and back, getting out of the wispmother's line of sight, and then go up the way to the watchtower, and everything… would be just… fine.

Unless the rest of the wispmother's floating swishing brood came right around the corner at them.

Oh dear, that was exactly what they were doing.

Ria was vaguely, dully aware that this was the part where it'd make sense to panic. There were two more wisps now, and though they'd just come into view, they were closing in quickly. They seemed to already expect their company.

"All right," Erik said, "get down and use a healing p—"

All three of the wispmother's spikes hit him right in the back. He shouted in pain, falling forwards onto all fours, before rolling onto his side, fumbling and jerking to get back on his feet. Now _he'd_ dropped his swords. The wisps were still closing in.

A healing potion would have been great right then. Ria had three of those on her belt. But it would've taken a good five seconds to get down a single dose, and they clearly did not have the time.

She grabbed her sword again, with her left hand this time, and looked back over her shoulder. The wispmother was still closing in, slow and steady as ever. Then Ria felt a sudden, seizing stabbing pain in her right arm. She turned back around to find the first wisp already on her, jabbing into her unarmored tricep with its metal prongs.

Well, the joke was on it. Ria wasn't even using that arm. She twisted away and rolled to the side, narrowly dodging another volley of ice spikes in the process. But her whole arm was too numb to use for balance, and she ended up sprawled on her back in the snow—okay, maybe she'd needed that arm after all. But her sword was still in the other hand.

Erik cried out again. Ria couldn't see him to know exactly why. He had a wisp of his own to deal with. But he'd have to deal with it himself right now.

The first wisp was still on top of her, coming down relentlessly, even as she moved away still. She tucked in her knees, then lashed out with both feet, kicking the little floating thing away long enough to try and get back on her feet again—then she felt another stabbing pain, in the base of her spine. The second wisp. She staggered sideways, and fell on the snow once more.

Ria didn't know what to do. But she was starting to get a feeling that maybe this was going to be it. She'd run out of luck, like the Circle before her. It was remarkable how easily the Companions could be brought down.

More likely than not, no one would ever even know about this. She rolled onto her back again, panting hard, looking up at the sky. Sovngarde was a few seconds away.

Then the sky changed, all through her field of vision. The scattered white cloud cover gave way to a magical, swirling dome of radiant purples and blues. It was seemingly backlit with a brilliant glow, and layered in a vast tower that converged on a beautifully bright sun, motionless at the very zenith of the sky. In that moment, another world was upon her.

Yet she was still in pain, and her body still felt cold. There was still snow beneath her. The Throat of the World still towered above her to the northeast. This didn't add up.

The wispmother was almost within arm's reach of her. So were both of the wisps. But they were frozen in place, coated in brilliant white energy that bled off tiny floating specks of light in all directions. Then, a moment later, all three of them—the first wisp, then the second wisp, then the wispmother—were sliced messily in half, one by one, as though by a massive, invisible blade. Ria could see straight through the gap between the wispmother's lower and upper halves.

She wondered if she was supposed to say something. Either she was dreaming the last dream of her life, or Shor had just answered a prayer she hadn't made.

But then, an instant later, the sky came back to normal, and all three of Ria's assailants collapsed. There was nothing left of the wispmother but a mound of ash, which for some reason was smoldering bluish smoke. Ria didn't even want to touch it.

The very first thing she did, before she even started thinking, was to uncork one of her healing potions and pour it down her throat. The pain faded away immediately. Then, she crawled over to Erik, where he was lying unconscious on the ground, and poured another healing potion into _his_ mouth. Once she got him to swallow it, he woke up in short order.

"Ugh," Erik groaned, sitting up and rubbing at the back of his head, looking around aimlessly until eventually focusing on Ria. "What in Oblivion happened?"

Ria shrugged helplessly. "I just… I just gave you a healing potion. Something killed the wispmother."

"Thanks," the Nord said, seemingly on reflex. Then he frowned. "Uh…"

"Yeah, I don't know. I don't know either. I just have more questions now." Ria sheathed her sword, and picked herself up to her feet once again. "But I think we just got saved by the Divines. Or one of them, at least." Then she gave him a brief description of what she'd just seen. As best she could, at least. She wasn't a master of words at the best of times, let alone when she'd just come close to death. Let alone that, plus still feeling very cold.

Erik rubbed at his eyes for a couple seconds, then stood up and sheathed his blade as well. He looked around the road, up and down, at the various deceased wisp-things laying around. "Well, that's interesting."

"Quite," Ria said.

"So… High Hrothgar, right?"

"Skybound Watch. Yes."

"All right, sounds good." A few more seconds went by, where they were just looking at each other. For a moment, it felt like they were going to address the fact that they'd almost just died. Or that something had mysteriously saved both of their lives. Or anything to do with how terrifying and huge this had all been. But instead, Erik just walked right past Ria, towards the wispmother's remains. "First," he said, "let's collect the wisp stuff. Good alchemy reagents."

Ria just stood and stared. Just now, the two of them had been saved from a grisly death by a force beyond either of their understanding. She was still struggling to figure out what it all meant.

And meanwhile, Erik was harvesting their fallen monstrous foes for alchemy supplies. Clearly, her Shield-Brother was a better adventurer than she was.


	16. Zaryth 3

Fredas, 7:01 PM, 15th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Silent City

Zaryth strode down the street as briskly as she could without looking undignified. She didn't want to have to stop for anything. This was purely a delivery trip.

Her desired destination was somewhere in the vicinity of the debate hall, whose sun-orb was quite a distance away from her now. Fortunately, the street seemed to be mostly empty, with most of the common workers having finished for the day. If she was quick, she could avoid any unwanted conversations and questions from passersby, and drop off her package as soon as possible.

Of course, it wasn't any sort of illicit matter. Zaryth wasn't so low as to move contraband around her own workplace. But still, the fewer questions, the better. She carried the cloth bundle under one arm, her free hand resting over its front for added security. All she had to do was drop this off, and she could return to her studies.

Lately, her studies were seeming to demand her constant attention. Between the mushroom development, the prototype indices, her ongoing analysis of the workshop machinery, and most recently, the unusual behavior from the stars, there had been much on her mind. Particularly since, according to her new colleagues, that last one seemed to be connected to the Dragonborn doing something catastrophic to the planes of Oblivion.

Fortunately, Zaryth had relatively little stake in Oblivion to begin with, so it was a manageable loss, but it was another item to consider on an ever-growing list. In all honesty, she should have made this delivery some time ago, but it was very easy these days for her to lose track of time.

As long as she was thinking about it, Zaryth pulled her new Dwemer timepiece from her belt pouch, and examined its obverse face. It was a palm-sized, fairly thick disc of hollow metal. A thin, protective layer of glass was set into its surface. Beneath were the three miniaturized hands of an analog clock, turning at a constant rate, and beneath those was the very visible machinery keeping them running. Truly, a marvelous machine. She could get lost in the gears and dynamos and sensors all inside this disc, all of them perfectly precise, and all of them mysteriously, miraculously working together. It was, simply put, a work of beauty in engineering.

According to the timepiece's hands, it was currently 7:01 and 23 seconds. Most certainly past dinnertime for everyone. Zaryth nodded to herself and put the device away once more. She wasn't leaving too early.

Just as she was buttoning the pouch closed, a foreign-sounding male voice called out behind her, "Ah! Zaryth! You are Zaryth, yes?"

So much for the effort at avoidance. The Dunmer mage stopped in place, closed her eyes and let out a long, quiet sigh. Whatever this was, she hoped it would be quick. She could hear the person's footsteps, coming up to her. Once they were close, she opened her eyes again and turned around.

It was a Khajiit. Mostly gray in coloration, with prominent black whiskers, and wearing that same drab worker's clothing that everyone down here wore. He was smiling brightly, which was almost rather unsettling. No one smiled when they saw Zaryth. This was quite abnormal.

"Yes, I am indeed Zaryth Velani," she eventually said, quite primly. "And you are?"

"This one is named J'zargo. Former assistant to the Dragonborn, in the man's time. Now, simply a mage and alchemist who does what he can to help." The Khajiit started walking again, towards the sun-orb, giving her the opportunity to continue on her way. Out of politeness, she tried to at least match the Khajiit's pace.

The fact that this J'zargo had worked under the Dragonborn was even more of a warning than that overly bright smile of his. If they had been back in Morrowind, it would have been beyond blatant that he was simply looking to gain Zaryth's trust for the sake of stealing her research. Here in Blackreach, though, things seemed to work somewhat differently. Zaryth wasn't sure what to think.

She asked, "What exactly do you do, here in the, ah… Silent City?"

"Oh, J'zargo does not work in the Silent City," the Khajiit said quickly. "J'zargo's laboratory is by the exit to Alftand. You may have seen it on the way in. The nirnroots out back are quite hard to miss."

Now that he mentioned it, Zaryth did remember that. She nodded slowly as the image came back to her mind. The image, and also the sound, for that matter—nirnroots made quite the audible noise even when there was only one of them. There must have been a hundred back there, and they'd made as much of a din as one would expect.

But that memory was irrelevant now. She returned her attention to the present. "Would you be so kind as to answer the question I asked you?"

J'zargo stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Ahh… Yes. What does J'zargo do. Typically, make potions for the Black Machine, while conducting independent studies. This past week, the potions were supplemented by great quantities of that strange concoction from the glowing mushrooms. Khajiit understands it was an unintended outcome of an essentially unrelated experiment, yes?"

Zaryth groaned loudly. She'd known she hadn't heard the last of that mistake. She'd simply known. How was it that she'd put decades of work into an entire bookshelf's worth of published works on the Dwemer, and yet her main point of interest managed to be an alchemical mistake she'd made once? Because that did, indeed, seem to be how this was turning out.

Eventually, she nodded, and said with audible weariness, "Yes, that originated in my laboratory. I refuse to take credit for it."

"J'zargo is not in the business of taking credit for the work of others," the Khajiit replied sharply. The veracity of this statement remained to be seen.

He had, after all, come out of seemingly nowhere just now to talk with Zaryth about random miscellanea. It was hardly a chance encounter, yet he was not coming forward with a particular purpose for them to be talking. It was the obvious, telltale behavior of someone with a poorly concealed ulterior motive.

"However," he continued, his tone softening, "based on Thorald's statements on the matter, J'zargo has not directed any attention towards you, simply out of respect. Besides, J'zargo added a few ingredients of his own to the final product." That smile returned, a little more cheekily than before. "They have taken to calling it 'moonshock'—for the effect it has on the tongue, and because it seems to be from a Khajiit. Letting groups of Nords decide upon the names of things may not be the wisest."

Zaryth couldn't help but smile at that. One advantage of a Khajiit mage in Skyrim was that they could offer an outsider's perspective on the Nordic way of life, much as the Dunmer herself could. But, she reminded herself, she wouldn't let common ground like that instill trust where it didn't belong.

Either way, she didn't want to talk at length about what amounted to a professional embarrassment. Her attention was focused on another thing J'zargo had said just now. "Thorald told you about this? What do you know about him, exactly? … Thorald, that is."

J'zargo shrugged. "Nord warrior, member of the Black Machine. He was on good terms with the Dragonborn. After the Dragonborn … left this cavern, Thorald began checking on J'zargo with great frequency. He has been most helpful, and supportive." The Khajiit was starting to smile dreamily, staring off ahead of himself. "A good friend, to be sure. He knows little of the ways of magic, but there are more important things in this world."

"Mages who think that don't get very far with their work," Zaryth countered smoothly. The sun-orb was coming up close, now. The Black Machine's living quarters were all just off to the left. "I'm at my destination now, in any case. Where are you off to?"

J'zargo glanced in the direction of the buildings in question, and nodded. "Likely back to the Alftand outpost, in that case. It has been a pleasure meeting you, Zaryth Velani. J'zargo hopes your time in Blackreach is a happy one."

And then the Khajiit turned and headed off, and Zaryth was—thankfully—left to proceed toward the buildings. That had certainly been strange. Many things were, down here.

Most of the workers in the Silent City got to live in the Dwemer's various houses, much as Zaryth did herself, but the Black Machine was divided across three particularly large buildings. They were of the plain, rectangular, flat-roofed variety, located all in a row along the street, directly across from the debate hall. It was unclear what purpose they had originally served, but now they housed fifty soldiers apiece. Each one had a pair of large double doors facing the street, and each was currently wide open.

This seemed simple enough. Zaryth had never been near the living quarters, but her intellect brought her where she needed to be all the same. As Zaryth walked past the first building, she glanced inside and saw that it was entirely empty. This made plenty of sense. Thorald had told her that the first fifteen of the Black Machine's thirty squads were away on a mission. That would likely mean that the next building would be half-populated, and the last building would be something like full.

There was quite a bit of noise from the second building. Thankfully, no one was out on the street right now, so Zaryth was free to hurry past as quickly as she liked. But there would be no avoiding the third building. She supposed an invisibility spell would have been in poor taste.

As with the first two buildings, the doors were open, and Zaryth had little to do but simply walk in. The sound of some fifty people mingling greeted her before she even made it to the doorway. This was going to be quite the delivery. She swallowed her trepidation, tightened her grip on the cloth-bundled package, and proceeded. Inside, there was a short corridor, beyond which she could see a spacious single room, filled with black and gold shapes all moving around.

But in addition, what she hadn't noticed at the previous buildings was that at the end of the corridor, there was a row of fine-linked Dwemer metal chain segments, spaced six inches or so apart, hanging from the lintel and extending all the way down to the floor. A simple anti-invisibility measure. She had to brush them aside in order to step in, which created quite the jingling noise. This was going to put more attention on her than she liked.

To her surprise, not all of the people in here were wearing armor. Thankfully, the ones who were didn't have their helmets on, but many of them were simply wearing that ubiquitous light clothing that people had down here. It was difficult to think of them and the ones in armor as the same, but they plainly were. The only one here who wasn't in the Black Machine was Zaryth herself.

The room seemed to be like a much larger version of the opening corridor, with double-layered bunk beds running down seemingly the entire left and right walls—by the continually running stonework, they might have originally been simple stone shelves, before being converted for use as a living space. There was a single, long stone table running down the center of the room, around which a few people were seated. Others were standing, or sitting, or lying down in their bunks, talking to each other, maintaining equipment—a few, to her surprise, were actually sitting about and reading books. They seemed content enough to be doing as they were doing. But when Zaryth came in through the curtain of chains, seemingly everyone stopped to look at her.

This wasn't what she had planned. There were fifty of these people, and she couldn't read all of the numbers on all of their armor. Even if they were all in their uniforms, she wouldn't _want_ to. Instead, she simply walked as cautiously as possible up to the nearest unarmored person—a Nord woman, by the looks of it—and asked, "Pardon me, do you know where Thorald Gray-Mane is?"

This person was a younger, fair-haired sort, who looked like she hadn't done anything with her life besides finding things to fight. She shrugged and pointed down the room. "Squad 29's bunks are that way."

Zaryth absently thanked the Nord and continued on her way. She was doing her best to keep her eyes forward, and keep her pace brisk, but she was painfully aware that everyone in here was looking at her. They'd all stopped what they were doing, and now they were staring stone-faced as she went by. A few of them were whispering inaudibly to each other, no doubt disparaging their new unwanted guest. The feeling was mutual, in any case. She didn't want to be here any longer than necessary to complete her delivery.

After a little while, she realized that the bunks actually were numbered. Each segment of stone shelf had a small metal card bolted onto its edge, with a Black Machine identification number in their signature blocky relief. It was certainly unlike any Dwemer-made style she had seen.

Then she mentally kicked herself for that analysis. Of course these cards weren't Dwemer-made. The Dwemer hadn't invented the Black Machine's numeral ranks, the Dragonborn had. She was also mentally kicking herself for coming here in the first place, instead of finding someone else to do the job. It was becoming unbearable how they were all simply staring at her.

But eventually, she did get to the bunks with the number 29 on their cards. They were all the way at the very end of the room, on the left side. Only one person was back here. An armored man, fairly stout-looking, with light skin and messily parted black hair. A Breton, probably. He was sitting in a simple wooden chair, whetting a straight-bladed ebony sword. The numbers on his pauldrons read 29 · 4.

"Hello," Zaryth said, more hesitantly than she should have. She quickly composed herself. "I have a delivery for your squad leader. It's very urgent, I need to bring it to him now, do you know where he is?"

The man looked up from his sword and smiled at her. People kept doing that. It wasn't getting any less bizarre. He said, "Zaryth, right? I presume he's out at the target range, like usual. These days, he always spends his evenings practicing."

Well, that complicated things somewhat. Zaryth frowned. "All right, well… uh…" She cleared her throat. "I can come back later. That shouldn't be a problem."

The man gave her a puzzled, head-turning squint. "Thaaat… No, you can go give it to him. Go on, he'll be happy to see you." His expression relaxed a bit. "Tell him I said hi, all right? My name's Echallos, by the way."

"Echallos." Zaryth nodded curtly. "So be it."

She didn't really know what else to say, so she turned around and strode back out of the room. The people here were returning to what they'd been doing, at least. It occurred to her that there really were quite a bit fewer than fifty of them in here. She wondered idly where the rest were. Drinking a great deal of fermented pulverized mushroom juice, presumably.

Fortunately, Zaryth knew where the target range was. Unfortunately, it couldn't have been much farther from her laboratory while still being part of the Silent City. But fortunately again, as before, the streets were mostly empty. And this time, no one stopped her for anything. She hurried away from the debate hall before her luck could change.

The path through the streets was long, but essentially straight. The Dunmer resisted the urge to check on her timepiece again. It had only been a few minutes. It would be fine. Thorald would be there, and… it would all be fine. She'd gotten through the Black Machine living quarters, there wasn't much else for her to be worried about down here.

Which was actually rather nice, itself. Most locations, whether they were professional workplaces like the College of Winterhold or simply some random remote ruin, were impossible to work in without periodically needing to deal with unwanted company. So far, in Blackreach, when Zaryth stayed in her laboratory, no one had bothered her. Besides Thorald checking on her, anyway, but she had to make some allowances for necessity. He'd certainly been most helpful.

And now Zaryth could return the favor, after a fashion. This would be good to get out of the way.

The target range had once been another anonymous building on the city outskirts, until the city's workers had replaced its rear wall with a row of slim stone pillars. Zaryth had seen it during her first proper tour of the Silent City. Despite that it was missing an entire wall, it still had a pair of doors on the front, so when Zaryth arrived, that was how she entered.

Sure enough, there was only one person on the other side. A fully armored soldier, standing in one of the middle lanes, with a straw target not terribly far away. It looked like the soldier was practicing a deft overhand throwing motion, empty-handed. Zaryth supposed that this was what Thorald did with his free time, but that was hard to grasp—both because the armor could have been anyone, numbers notwithstanding; and because this didn't look like what the others had been doing in their free time, and they'd obviously been the prevailing example.

In any case, when she closed the doors behind herself, the soldier immediately heard her, and turned around. For half a second or so, she was being stared at by an expressionless armored visor, and she started to feel a jolt of something resembling revulsion. But then the helmet came off in one hand, and it was Thorald beneath, shaking out his hair and taking a deep breath in.

"Thorald," Zaryth said, nodding courteously. "I have—is this a bad time?" Thorald shook his head. She continued immediately. "I have something for you. I thought you should have it, I mean. It's better than if I tried to hold onto it, that much is certain. It's really nothing."

"Is that it?" Thorald pointed to the cloth-bound package under her arm.

"Yes! Yes, it is. Here." Zaryth held it out for him to take. "It was difficult to find you. Your squadmate—here, take it—had to direct me."

Thorald accepted the package with a murmured thanks, and started unwrapping it as he spoke. "So, uh… Which one?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Which squadmate was it?" There was a bit of string holding the package closed. Thorald was having difficulty undoing it with his gauntlets on.

Zaryth stopped. She couldn't remember if the man had told her his name. "Uh… Black hair, light skin…"

"Echallos," Thorald said. That was the one. "I like him. He'd probably like you, too, if you decided to talk to him more. … Ugh, to Oblivion with this." He then proceeded to pull out a Dwemer metal knife from a sheath on his leg, and simply cut the string apart. That was that, then.

"Thankfully, I did not need that cord to remain at its full length," Zaryth said dryly. "It was quite a journey coming over here. I ended up being talked to by your Khajiit mage, J'zargo, as well."

Thorald had put the knife away, and now he was just very delicately unfolding the fabric. "Uh huh," he said, obviously inattentively, before unrolling the package all the way, and seeing what was inside. Then he said nothing.

A few seconds went by where he did nothing but stare at the book's cover. Then he slowly opened it, and began thumbing through the pages. As he did, he stepped over to the near wall, and leaned his back against it. The look on his face was certainly of some very deep kind of feeling.

Zaryth broke the silence with, "It's just part of my cleanup. I don't need books about Nordic legends—I've read them, they're all kinds of chaotic, have you seen how many times Wuuthrad is referenced? How much literature can be produced about one man with a glorified _axe?_ I didn't even want to be seen carrying this thing, but you're a Nord, so you can probably get away with it—"

In the middle of her own sentence, she happened to glance at Thorald's face. Tears were running down it. She faltered suddenly. "… I mean… they're not bad, all in all, you should… you should be proud that your race has such a rich history, and... I thought you might want the, uh…"

"Thank you," Thorald said, a bit shakily, before sniffing and wiping at his face with his metal-clad hand. He looked up at the mage with the same expression as before. "Thank you, Zaryth. You don't know how much this means to me."

Part of Zaryth wanted her to hastily excuse herself and scurry out of the room before this could get any worse. But this was Thorald, and that didn't feel like the right thing to do. Instead, she walked over and leaned an arm on the wall next to him. "Well, feel free to enlighten me," she replied matter-of-factly. "You seem to be good at that."

That managed to get him to laugh a bit, even despite his reaction just now. "I try. I do try." Then he looked down at the book again. It really was a hefty tome. The title on the cover read, _Songs of the Return: An Annotated Compendium_. It was one of the newer titles that had appeared on Zaryth's doorstep recently. Thorald went on. "My, ah… My mother used to read these to me, when I was a boy. That was a very long time ago."

Not as long ago as Zaryth's own childhood. But that could wait. She paused for a second, then simply said, "Well, you're welcome. I don't know, I thought you would like it."

"So far, so good." Thorald smiled and closed the book again. Then he let out a heavy sigh, and sank down to sit against the wall, laying the book on the floor beside him, atop its cloth wrapping. At least the floors around here were clean. "Ahhh. I've been in my armor for a while. It does weigh quite a bit. … Wait, you don't need me to take it off again, do you?"

Zaryth laughed sheepishly. She felt a bit of flushing heat at the memory, if only for how peculiar it had been. "No, no, that was just the once. I hope you didn't find it too strange to ask."

"Well, the armor is supposed to make our enemies see us less as people and more as unstoppable forces," Thorald said mildly, "and you did proceed to tell me about how your home was destroyed by an unstoppable force. So I can see why you wouldn't want to be staring at my armor while we talked about that."

As usual, Thorald seemed to hit the nail on the head perfectly on the first try. Zaryth sighed. "Yes, well, that was then. Today's a new day, so… hopefully, uh…"

Thorald very helpfully cut her off with a remark of his own, thereby saving her from having to think of an ending to that sentence. "Hold on. Did you say something about J'zargo?"

Zaryth wasn't entirely sure what to do with herself, given that she was still standing up, and Thorald was not. She decided on sitting down next to him, as neatly as she could manage, at least. "Yes, he found me not a minute after I'd left my lab," she said. "I'm not sure what he wanted. He seemed to be trying to win my favor by talking to me about… I don't even know. What's he like, Thorald? Can I even trust him?"

"J'zargo? Absolutely." Thorald said it with such instant conviction, it felt like it had to be true. Which, honestly, it probably was. Thorald seemed to be an expert at analyzing people, which was bizarre, since he obviously had nothing to gain from most of them. "He likely just wanted to make friends with you. He's been very lonely since the Dragonborn left. I don't think he'd ever do anything to turn on you."

"Well… Hm." Zaryth stopped for a second and rubbed her eyes. "How is everyone so _earnest_ down here? It's even stranger than the… giant… glowing mushrooms. No one seems to so much as want anything of their own."

Thorald shrugged mildly. It was oddly nice to see him being unfazed by things again. "Not at the expense of the people around them, if that's what you mean. We're not all particularly pleasant company down here, but if we can't trust each other, we don't belong in Blackreach. It's a tightly-knit community." He paused. "And it'd be fun to see what happened if you and J'zargo worked together on something."

Now, _that_ was unexpected. Being civil to him was one thing, but letting him in on projects? "What? No, he'll probably blunder in and spill a bunch of skooma on everything."

"J'zargo doesn't drink skooma," Thorald said flatly.

"No, you're right, he probably smokes it. Did you know you can use a skooma pipe as an alembic?"

"We don't even bring skooma down here."

Zaryth brushed it off. "Well, he'll spill whatever his drink is. That ghastly mushroom substance, maybe. I thought he was putting skooma in it."

Thorald and shook his head. "For what it's worth, I don't question the ways of alchemists, but really. J'zargo's a good worker. I've… actually never talked with him about it directly, but I think he rather hates the whole skooma reputation. Also, I am _not_ drinking that mushroom stuff."

"Good." The Dunmer made a face, half-involuntarily. She didn't know if she could cope with the idea of Thorald making a habit of putting a particularly noxious failure of alchemy in his body. "They're probably off drinking it right now."

The Nord promptly joined her in looking repulsed. "If I didn't drink with them back when they just had mead, I'm not about to start now."

"No, you just…" Zaryth waved a hand in the direction of the straw target. "Throw knives, right? That's how you spend your time?"

"Well, it's not for fun, if that's what you mean. I just need to train."

That made her sit up somewhat. By the sound of it, Thorald was making a daily routine of all this extra practice. "But… your training was earlier today, right? I can't imagine you're falling behind at something. At your… knives."

"Training is done by dinnertime," Thorald nodded. "There's not much to fall behind on. We're not required to know how to throw a knife, it's just something I wanted to pick up."

This made sense, to a degree. Of course Thorald was a good warrior—he couldn't possibly be in such a terrifyingly elite army if he weren't. In fact, he was dedicated enough to put his own personal time into going beyond his training. On the other hand, Zaryth was trying to think if she had ever asked Thorald—or if Thorald had ever taken the initiative and told her—about what he did with the rest of his time. It was a bit of a mystery.

She replied, "But you're doing this training in your free time, and it's not even fun. What do you do for fun?"

Thorald didn't hesitate to answer. "I don't really think of things in those terms, Zaryth. It's not about what would be fun, for me, it's simply what seems like a good idea to do."

Now Zaryth knew she was missing something. There was a sort of pattern, she'd noticed, to her conversations with Thorald. She'd go in feeling like something wasn't right, and then the man would somehow make it better, just by being himself and saying whatever he said. But right now, this wasn't making a great deal of sense.

The Dunmer did her best to choose her words carefully. She didn't want to ask the wrong question. "So, what part of this are you enjoying? What makes you happy, Thorald?"

But Thorald didn't have an answer ready. He looked right at Zaryth, silently, impassively, for a very long moment. He took a slow breath in, and out again, frowning slightly, as though deep in contemplation. And then he shook his head and said, "I don't know."

He didn't know. He just… He didn't know what made him happy.

And he was still looking right at her, as straight-faced as ever. Zaryth was waiting for him to break into his big mirthful smile, and tell her he was just kidding, and start listing all the exciting things that a Nord warrior like him would do to enjoy life. But that wasn't happening. He was just… looking at her. He'd answered the question.

It didn't seem possible. It simply didn't work. Thorald had never shown any sign of being anything but the perfect Nord warrior. Now Zaryth's mind was racing. She wanted this to make sense, and it _was not_ making sense.

When she spoke again, her voice had much more emotion it than she wanted. "But… but… you must have enjoyed things at some point, right? You liked the book, right?"

Thorald glanced down beside him, where the book was sitting. He nodded slowly. "I liked things, once. I liked fighting, and drinking, and singing, and going on big grand adventures." He looked and sounded like what he was describing was nothing important. There was no feeling to it. It was almost a bit disturbing. "A couple years ago, when the Stormcloak Rebellion was still going strong, the Thalmor captured me. House Gray-Mane was always known for supporting Nordic tradition, and… I don't know. They captured me, and put me in a freezing dungeon for over a year."

Zaryth put a hand over her mouth. She wouldn't have guessed this. Not even close.

"I don't actually remember it being that long. The days sort of blurred together, after a while. Every day, they'd drag me out of my cell and shackle me to a wall, and ask me if I supported the Stormcloaks. And they just kept… hitting me with shock spells, until I'd say yes. But I never said yes."

Thorald paused, and took a breath in, collecting his thoughts. This was far, far too much.

"Then a… well, actually, a childhood friend of mine from Whiterun broke me out, right before the Second War started. But I never actually went back to Whiterun until a few weeks ago. First I went to Solitude, and then Alftand, and Blackreach… I've just been a soldier since then. That's all anyone's needed me to be. I've saved a lot of lives, being part of the Black Machine. And I don't know, everyone else around here seems happy enough. But when I went back to Whiterun, it didn't feel like home anymore."

Actually, Zaryth had changed her mind. She'd liked it more when this hadn't made sense.

She couldn't imagine going through what Thorald had described. Or, she could imagine it, but she couldn't imagine refusing to yield for so long. Was that the only thing that was keeping him going? Just that same completely implacable refusal to yield?

Then Thorald smiled a little, and said, "So there you go. You've shared your troubles with me, now I've done the same. I appreciate you listening to all that."

"No, don't do that! Don't do the nice patient thing right now!" Zaryth waved her hands at him. It didn't work so great when they were both sitting down. "You can't do that, you're supposed to… Aren't… Aren't you upset or anything? Why aren't you looking upset?"

The Nord just shrugged. "Wouldn't help. This isn't some kind of personal revelation for me, I've had plenty of time to think about myself. It's simple. I lost a lot of things in that dungeon, and—you know, I hear about people having nightmares about the things they go through, but I don't get those. I don't feel much different about the Thalmor than any other enemy. Just… Now when I go to have some mead with my squadmates, I'm just pretending to enjoy it. I know soldiers can be happy, but why should I be?"

Zaryth didn't even know where to start in answering that question. It sounded like the sort of thing that Thorald himself would have been the one to answer. It was driving her crazy, because there were probably some perfect words for her to be saying right now, and she just didn't have them. How was she supposed to make him feel better? Because he had to. He had to feel better. If anyone here was going to feel better, it had to be him. And Zaryth… Zaryth just didn't have any words.

After a few seconds went by in silence, Thorald said, "I know I'm not the only soldier down here to have so much trouble, but I haven't wanted to—"

Before she could convince herself not to, Zaryth leaned over and put both of her arms around Thorald's middle. It wasn't much of a hug, with of the armor all in the way. Her head ended up right by the ridge on his shoulder plate. She could feel the raised outline of the metal gear against her chest. It was all very cool and rigid to the touch. But it didn't matter. She still did it.

"I think you deserve to be happy," she mumbled. "Can that count? … Please?"

A pair of metal-clad arms closed around her back, and held on tight. She could feel the armor rising and falling slowly as Thorald breathed. This was probably the closest they could come to properly embracing while he had the armor on. It wasn't like Zaryth minded. The closest she could come right now to _saying_ anything helpful was just dead silence.

Eventually, Thorald said softly, "You do make me feel special. Do you know that?"

Zaryth pulled away just enough to look at him. That was as unexpected as the rest of it. She couldn't keep track of how she felt about any of this, anymore. It had all become too much to manage.

While she was thinking, Thorald quite casually added, "I'm never special."

"I'm going to keep hugging you until you stop saying bad things about yourself," Zaryth said with pretty much the same tone.

The armored surfaces against her lowered away a bit as Thorald let out a sigh. "Someday… we'll get to embrace each other, and it _won't_ be in the wake of some terrible revelation."

"Do you want to get them all out of the way now, just in case?"

"Uh…" Thorald bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "One time I stabbed a helpless Thalmor officer who was trying to surrender, I was forced to kill my friend from Whiterun when he turned evil, uh… My crowning achievement according to most of Skyrim is when I slit a Thalmor mage's throat one time… I think that's about it."

Apparently, all of Thorald's revelations had to do with people he'd killed within the past year. Zaryth shrugged indifferently. " _My_ crowning achievement according to most of Blackreach is when I accidentally made a liquid mushroom disaster."

"This is actually a really uncomfortable position," Thorald said.

"Yes, it is." Zaryth pushed herself off all the way and sat back on the stone. She still wanted to say something perfect right now, but nothing was coming to mind.

Another brief time of silence passed. Neither of them were really looking at each other. Apparently, the tactic of using a physical embrace to help with emotional difficulty worked both ways, between them. But Zaryth wasn't satisfied. The only person in Blackreach she cared about was in trouble. It was safe to admit that now, she reasoned. Thorald was someone she cared about.

"I do appreciate the book," the Nord said, as he picked up his new text and the cloth it'd been wrapped in. "I know I'm not a scholar like you are. I'm far too much of a warrior. I know. But I appreciate it. Thank you."

Zaryth nodded. This whole experience had put her in a bit of a daze. It wasn't the most pleasant, as experiences went. But she was aware, on some level, that she had a new task laid out for her. One that, evidently, no one else had even the slimmest hope of helping with. It was improbably bizarre that it'd fallen to her, a noble mage from Morrowind, to help with it. But here they were.

It was so strange, the two of them. A scholar, and a warrior. They shouldn't have had much in common, yet they seemingly did. And normally, that might have made Zaryth feel quite lucky, but it didn't, not right then. Zaryth knew she was a scholar by trade, just as Thorald knew he was a warrior by trade.

And Zaryth, for her part, couldn't have been happier doing what she did. Her type of trade was what made her life worth living.

So why didn't they have _that_ in common as well?


	17. Gelebor 4

Loredas, 9:43 AM, 9th of Second Seed, 4E 202

The Reach

"I think that's actually a bear skeleton."

"I think you're right, Vidrald."

Gelebor and his companions had been walking along this riverbank for five days. The hills and cliffs had given way to a constant mountainside, covered in ice higher up, yet still burnt as could be. They were on their way east, to a Dwemer city in Skyrim's northeastern corner, apparently named Alftand. The name was unfamiliar to him. But it would be a long journey, and these five days had been spent still traveling through the wastes of the Reach.

The latest spectacle was a freestanding Nordic ruin just by the riverside path. Three rough-hewn post-and-lintel arches of stone brick, large enough to walk through, arranged in a neat triangle. A bleached skeleton of some large animal was laid out in the ash beside it.

As they walked by, the snow elf gazed silently upon the ruin. Not even the beasts of the Reach had escaped the slaughter.

Teldryn was saying, "This might be the largest skeleton I've seen out here. And we've seen plenty. I'm curious what life will grow here one day, with the slate wiped as clean as this."

Gelebor's traveling partners were quite conversational with one another. After their shared experience in Bthar-zel, he felt that he could trust them with a great deal, but it was not always easy to keep up with their rapport. Even in his own era, Gelebor had not been one for the fast-paced demands of conversation. Now, he was simply glad that they didn't seem to expect him to speak much.

"Scorched as clean as this, more like," Vidrald muttered.

"Indeed. What I would give for a good leg of venison right now. Or some bread, at least. Or an ash yam. Just one ash yam." Teldryn's tone had gone wistful. "I would give the world for one ash yam."

"Soon, my friend. Soon."

For these five days, the trio had walked alongside this river, which had offered fresh, clean water for the whole journey—but there was no food to forage or hunt for. All of the wood and other burnable materials, for potential use in campfires, had already been completely burnt away. Even the river itself was seemingly barren of life, reduced to merely a channel of water through the stone of the hillsides.

Accordingly, Teldryn and Vidrald had been forced to rely on those strange brownish discs for sustenance. Judging by their reactions whenever they sated their hunger, Gelebor felt immensely grateful that Auri-El had freed his body from such material needs.

Still, the snow elf shared his companions' desire to escape the desolation of the Reach. This particular ruin afforded a relative vantage point—to the left, the mountainside stood high with snow caps high above; straight ahead, the road took a gentle decline for some miles, before inclining again and curving leftward around the side of the mountain; to the right was the usual craggy expanse of the Reach, beyond the river, which had dipped down into a steep, narrow gorge. All of it was, of course, burnt to complete lifelessness. This journey had done little but to embitter him towards the Thalmor, and provide a fresh array of imagery to haunt him during the night hours.

"I had a thought earlier," Vidrald said, "but I've been unsure of how to broach it, so I'll simply put it forward. I ah… I think we may all need better armor."

He paused for emphasis. Gelebor waited for him to continue.

"We were all injured at least once in Bthar-zel, and each time, it was due to poor armor coverage. I saw that sphere cut your arm, Gelebor. And you and I, Teldryn—why haven't we gotten helmets yet? This armor must have come with a helmet at some point."

"So we can see each other's beautiful faces, of course," Teldryn said dryly. "… I used to have a helmet, but upon arrival in Windhelm, I was told that it made me look hideous and that no one would hire me if I had it on. Frankly, if I had known there would be so much ash, I would have kept it."

Vidrald gave the Dunmer a glance. "Why?"

"It was designed to function in Morrowind, and Solstheim by extension. The eyepieces were solid glass, to prevent any ash getting in, and the mouth and nose were covered by cloth to reduce any amount inhaled. Fortunately, there have been no ash storms in the Reach so far, but I have been concerned."

Ash storms. What a terribly bleak mental image that phrase invoked. Gelebor didn't understand how anyone could abide such living conditions, yet Teldryn had made his people's way of life a point of pride. He was sure that Teldryn thought the same of him, with his religious asceticism (somewhat enforced by a lack of hunger and thirst) and preference for the cold.

At least they could all agree that the Reach was a terrible place to be. Gelebor took some token amount of comfort in that.

He said to his companions, "It was just as well that you did not bring helmets to Bthar-zel. I would have had to ask you to remove them so that I could knock you unconscious."

Vidrald simply laughed. "What's life without a few surprises, eh?"

"I do appreciate not being struck senseless without warning," Teldryn said crossly. One of his greatest talents seemed to be in expressing his feelings through sheer tone of voice. "I know I've said it before, but I really was disturbed by that, in hindsight."

The Nord said, "I've been somewhat avoiding asking about this, as well, but do you know why it disturbed you so deeply? I trust you understand that it was necessary for us all."

Gelebor said nothing. It seemed that Vidrald was doing the talking for him. That seemed to be for the best, at the moment—and in all sincerity, Gelebor doubted he could credibly defend himself and his actions if neither of his companions were to agree with him. His adherence to the will of Auri-El did not serve him in the field of common debate.

Teldryn shook his head silently, letting out a long sigh as they walked onward. He remained silent for a little while, but he did eventually answer. "It was a reminder, I suppose, of how little control I ultimately have over my own survival. I enjoy adventure more than most, I think, or else I wouldn't be out here with you, but… still."

At this point, the snow elf couldn't help himself, but he was still short on things to say in particular. All he could offer was, "I… am sorry, Teldryn. I won't do anything of the sort again."

"Thanks." His companion's reply was singularly half-hearted. Perhaps not as bad as it could have been, at least.

It was remarkable how differently the three of them had all reacted to the events of Bthar-zel. Gelebor, for his part, had been mainly feeling grateful that they had made it out safely. Vidrald seemed to be fairly emboldened by the acquisition of the second Aetherium shard. Teldryn… had been fairly quiet, all in all, and he certainly was making no secret of his distress.

Of course, at the same time, this journey had exposed each of them to things that would give them great cause for personal disturbance. Gelebor had entered a city that had once belonged to the betrayers and destroyers of his entire race; Vidrald had spent days on end walking through the burnt remains of his own homeland; but while they had both seemingly fared well enough together, Teldryn—who was obviously no stranger to physical threats in general—had been affected the most. It mainly made Gelebor feel concerned. There was clearly far more to the Dunmer's predicament than met the eye.

He wondered if he could call these people his friends yet. He hadn't quite had the chance to meet many of the people of the Fourth Era for comparison.

"I'm unsure how I will handle the matter of my race," he said. "You both have been perfectly accepting, much to my relief, but I expect we'll encounter other people on our way."

Vidrald said, "Oh, that's easy. We'll say you're an Altmer with a special sensitivity to the sun. You can put on one of our cloaks for good measure. You'd be surprised how few questions the people of Skyrim might care to ask you."

"If… you say so, Vidrald. I'm not as sure—"

Gelebor stopped mid-sentence. It was in that moment, right as he spoke, that his path took him around the bend of the mountain. Everything came into view all at once.

The landscape ahead was green. There were trees, and shrubs, and grass all along the road, starting only a few stone's throws away from where he now stood. The icy mountainside continued along the left, but starting just as close by, it began to be dotted with the swaying spires of evergreen trees. A very clear line had been made across this side of the riverbank, between what was burnt and what was not. And down the road ahead, at the far end of a mile or so of gentle descent, was the reason why.

There was a village. It was sitting right there, just on the edge of the river gorge, a whole collection of Nordic buildings—small, simple dwellings, with thatched roofs on walls of stone and wood. Thin columns of wispy gray smoke were rising from their chimneys, vanishing into the morning sky. To the buildings' right, a great stone bridge arched across the two sides of the gorge. In front of them, a glimmering stream was running down from the peaks above, joining the river below with an impressive waterfall. The village's nearest building was a mill on the far bank of the stream, and Gelebor could see its big wooden wheel slowly turning with the current.

He was looking at people's homes. People, living their lives. When was the last time he had looked upon such a sight as this? He couldn't remember. So many of his memories were…

The snow elf fell softly to his knees. Something was coming over him. He had spent so long in the presence of Auri-El's grace, within the splendor of his old Chantry. And ever since the beginning of his time in Darkfall Cave, he had yearned so dearly to return to his place of worship as it had once been. All of that was a distant detail now. He had seen so much death in these past days. Never before now had he realized that such simple life could be so beautiful.

A strong, heavy hand lay on his shoulder. Its touch was familiar.

"We're almost there, Gelebor," Vidrald's voice said gently.

The Nord was right, of course. There was no sense in lingering. Gelebor swallowed and nodded, pushing himself back to his feet, looking at his companions one by one. His words came to him with difficulty. "This… is a great surprise to me. This moment."

"We're looking at Dragon Bridge," Teldryn said. "We stopped here on the way into the Reach. As you can see, they kept the fires from spreading too close. But before we come any closer…" He reached up to his collar, and started undoing his cloak's clasp. "You may want to put this on."

The cloak was made of a heavier fabric than Gelebor had expected. It smelled heavily of ash, and after so long in the Reach, that said quite a lot. He still donned it all the same, hood raised and head lowered. The others could handle the talking, he reasoned. They had done it well enough with one another so far.

As they walked over the threshold between ash and grass, Gelebor asked, "Where do we go to first?"

Vidrald replied, "To the Four Shields Tavern, to get some _real_ food."

Gelebor decided not to try to formulate a reply. He fell in line behind the others and tried not to make a spectacle of himself. Between his skin color and his armor, he expected that some amount of unwanted attention from the locals would be inevitable, but at least he could try not to make the matter worse for himself.

The walk up to the village felt very short. Soon enough, they were passing by the mill—it seemed to be meant for cutting logs, but it was quite unattended today—and heading in between the buildings. Gelebor's heart jumped as he heard the sounds of people in the streets, but he did his best not to look. They were few in number, and they were surely looking at the trio passing through.

Before long, a large building was coming up to them, larger than most of the others. It was an undecorated wooden structure, with the same thatched roof as all the others, and a spacious raised porch made of broad planks and logs. They creaked quite charmingly as Teldryn walked up the stairs. There was a hanging sign on a post in front of the porch, but Gelebor didn't bother to examine it. He understood what this place was. Never once in his life did he dream that he might set foot in a Nordic inn, but he was doing his best to keep an open mind. These days, it served him well.

The Dunmer, the Nord and the snow elf all walked into the Four Shields Tavern together. It was scarcely more decorated inside than it had been outside, but Gelebor found the warm smoke-scented air to be more than comfort enough. They were in a central sort of room, all built around a blazing hearth. There was a counter at one end and tables and chairs throughout, as well as a few doors on the side walls, presumably to sleeping quarters. Not an unpleasant space in the slightest.

The proprietor, or at least the person behind the counter, was a Nord woman in a dark green and white dress. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the three of them. "What is this, some sort of joke?"

"Just stopping in for some luncheon," Vidrald called over. "We'll be on our way soon."

An odd reply, Gelebor thought. Perhaps the races of mer were less than welcome here. But the Nord woman seemed satisfied with the answer, and nodded in affirmation. "Well, find yourselves a table, and I'll be right with you. Anything you'd like in particular?—"

"Anything that's hot and fresh," Vidrald said.

"Please, thank you so much," Teldryn said over Vidrald.

"All right," the proprietor nodded. "Just pay first, and we can get going."

That seemed to throw Gelebor's companions off a little bit. Teldryn walked over and exchanged some hushed words with the woman, before eventually counting out some gold coins onto the counter. He returned with a bit of a displeased look on his face. Perhaps this was more of the Nords' distrust for other races. It was hard to say, if only for lack of any other experience for comparison.

"Come now," Vidrald smiled gently to the Dunmer. "Let's enjoy ourselves, yes? … Find ourselves a table?"

All of the tables in here were empty. In fact, the entire room was such, at the moment, besides the proprietor and her three new guests. Teldryn led the way over to the nearest table, and sat down on one side, unslinging his pack to put on the floor beside him. Vidrald and Gelebor sat opposite him, and lowered their hoods in time with one another.

"So," the Dunmer murmured, leaning his elbows on the table. "I'm wondering if we should stop in Solitude for some armor. We don't have to get anything special, just some helmets, and… maybe some bracers for you, Gelebor."

Vidrald frowned. "That's not quite on our way. We can't detour for such things."

"Actually, maybe we could get them here in Dragon Bridge. At that place we got our food from last time."

"That was here."

"No, I thought there was a dry goods store. There must be. What sort of village doesn't have one of those?"

"Wait." Gelebor held up a hand. "What _is_ Solitude? … I presume it's a city, but I have yet to see a contemporary map of Skyrim."

At that moment, the proprietor came by with a handful of tankards for them. She set them down one by one. Ale, by the looks of it. Gelebor hadn't had any strong drink—or any drink at all—in literally entire eras. He murmured a word of thanks as he was served, then promptly ignored the beverage and returned to the conversation.

"I don't know if we have any maps nearby," Vidrald said.

Teldryn stared at Gelebor and let out a long, closed-mouthed sigh—typical Teldryn theatrics, essentially. Then he turned over his shoulder and called out, "Madam? Some paper and charcoal, if you have any, please?"

The Nord woman had only just gotten back to the counter. She muttered something exasperated-sounding and started rummaging elsewhere, and then a moment later, she was walking over with a roll of paper and a small stick of charcoal. "Like this?"

"That's it," Teldryn nodded. "Thank you." Apparently, the paper and charcoal were a free courtesy. Once he'd accepted the materials, he laid the paper out on the table, and after a brief moment of contemplation, began to use the charcoal to sketch out an abstract shape.

Gelebor tried not to lean in at him too invasively as he watched. "Are… Are you drawing a map?"

The Dunmer nodded again, wordlessly, and continued his work. It went on for a minute or so, while the proprietor went about her own preparations. Eventually, he sat back, laid his fingers on the paper, and turned it around for Gelebor to look. It was a crude, oblong outline, divided into nine spaces by internal, curving lines. Each space had a single, large circular dot somewhere in it.

"Welcome to the Skyrim of 4E 202," he said. "The Nords have divided the province into nine holds, each ruled by its own jarl. They all have their own capital cities, hence the nine dots. The one closest by us, Solitude," he tapped the dot farthest to the northwest with his finger, "is also the capital of the entire province."

The snow elf nodded along. "Under the rule of the Empire, yes?"

"That's right. There are also eight other hold capitals—" Teldryn proceeded to list them all, as well as the names of all nine holds, though Gelebor only recognized the names of Windhelm and Whiterun out of all that. He then added two more dots to the paper, one in the northwest by Solitude, and one in the northeast by… Winterhold, if Gelebor's memory of the past thirty seconds served. "We're here, in Dragon Bridge. We need to get here, to Alftand." He pointed from northwest to northeast as he said the two names. "Make sense?"

"Fine," Gelebor said flatly.

"Excellent speech," Vidrald grinned. "You have quite the speaking voice, you know. I think you could just read numbers out of a business ledger and it would still sound beautiful."

"Well, I tried. No one can say that I didn't." Teldryn pushed the paper across the table, then set the piece of charcoal off to his side. "Keep it," he said. "May as well, right?"

Gelebor started to reach for the paper, and then realized he had nowhere to put it. "Um…"

Vidrald picked up the paper, then folded it into eighths and put it in a side pouch on his pack. At this point, he seemingly remembered that he ought not to have it on while sitting in a chair, and very quietly placed it on the floor beside his chair.

A half-minute or so passed in silence. The proprietor was still busily working away, though it was still hard to see exactly what on. Perhaps she had simply not expected that anyone would come in here for a meal so early in the day.

Eventually, Gelebor spoke up once more. It had taken some time for him to compose his thoughts, after such a starkly unrecognizable map of the province. "Skyrim has certainly changed since I last saw it, though… in fairness, my knowledge of my people's cities was far from perfect to begin with. The Chantry was an isolated place."

"It's more than you know," Vidrald said. "Skyrim is vastly different from what it was three hundred years ago, let alone three thousand."

He paused for emphasis. Gelebor waited patiently for the rest.

"For example, the capital of the province was once the city of Bromjunaar, the ruins of which are known today as Labyrinthian. It was the jewel of Hjaalmarch, and the seat of the Dragon Cult, during Alduin's reign. Then after the dragons fell, the capital became Winterhold, then after nearly all of Winterhold fell _into the sea_ , the capital became Solitude. Chances are, three hundred years from now, the map will be all different once again."

"Goodness," Gelebor said. "… Which hold is Hjaalmarch again?"

Vidrald was unfazed. "The one south of Solitude. After Labyrinthian, the jewel of Hjaalmarch eventually manifested itself as the city of Snowhawk, but that was razed during the Oblivion Crisis. Now the capital city is Morthal, which… I don't know if I would call it the jewel of Hjaalmarch. Maybe the… uncomfortably moist and slippery pebble of Hjaalmarch. But Snowhawk and Winterhold both fell within the past three hundred years. Cities are far less everlasting than their inhabitants think them to be."

"And holds," Teldryn added.

Gelebor matter-of-factly replied, "You realize that this is all impossible to keep track of, yes? I've forgotten nearly all of it already."

At this point, the proprietor arrived with their food. There were three wooden bowls evenly spaced apart on a large circular platter, which she set down before them. The bowls were filled with some sort of reddish stew whose nature Gelebor didn't recognize. In between them, at the center of the platter, was a rectangular plate carrying a short stack of slices of bread. The food of the Fourth Era. Gelebor was being treated to a fascinating first meal.

It occurred to him that he was going to have to relieve himself of all this later. That was an experience he had been quite happy living without.

The proprietor set the bowls out for them one by one, putting a spoon in each as she went, and then removed the platter from beneath the bread-bearing plate. "Enjoy," she said brightly, and then promptly walked off.

The next few minutes were spent eating in silence. Teldryn and Vidrald both attacked their stews with a very understandable eagerness, but Gelebor took nearly a minute to even have his first spoonful. He was simply taking it all in. The sight of the pieces of meat and vegetables floating in the opaque broth, the feel of the steam wafting up to his face, the smell of a dozen fresh ingredients all put together for them now. He didn't have to eat to survive, it was true, but this experience was a marvelous one all the same.

Eventually, he did give the dish a slow, careful taste. Comforting heat and savory flavors blossomed over his palate all at once. It was a simple sort of fare, he could tell, but it was good, and beautiful in its own right. As he proceeded to eat more, he could only feel honored that he had been allowed to experience this pleasure once again.

He was much slower to try his ale. When he did, he found it was pleasantly cool in contrast to the stew, and also bit his tongue with predictable viciousness. Apparently, the Nords enjoyed this. There was little to do but finish what he had started, of course.

The plate in the center turned out to have exactly three slices of bread on it, which should have been more obvious than it was. Gelebor wasn't sure what it was for, until Teldryn and Vidrald finished their stew and started using the bread to mop up the remnants of liquid from the inside of their plates. That was fascinating. The snow elf had no recollection of food being used quite that way, back before he had been freed from the demand of hunger.

"This is almost worth all the trekking through the Reach," Vidrald murmured, in between mouthfuls of bread. Gelebor was only halfway through his stew.

"I wouldn't go that far," Teldryn replied. He did seem to be thoroughly enjoying his food, however. "Now, if we had been served a plate of ash yams…"

Vidrald very calmly replied, "Teldryn, if we ever actually find any ash yams, I will personally stick every one of them—"

"So, I was thinking I might go look for that dry goods store now," the Dunmer elegantly cut him off. He gestured to Gelebor's unfinished meal. "Vidrald, would you mind, ah…"

"Keeping our friend company? Not coming along to supervise your purchases?"

Their friend. That made Gelebor smile. He lowered his face so they wouldn't as plainly see. It likely meant little to them, but… This was a very good day.

Teldryn didn't seem to notice, at least. "It's _my_ gold, Vidrald. … Yes."

Vidrald didn't seem to notice either, despite sitting next to him. That, or he didn't want to discomfort someone he considered a friend, for having such a visible reaction to being called such. "Well, that's all right," he said. "If you'd like to buy us all some helmets, I'm not one to argue. Perhaps some gloves for Gelebor. Actually, Gelebor, how are you with the cold? With those… bare arms of yours?"

"I am a snow elf," Gelebor said. As blunt as the sentence was, he was careful not to say it loudly enough for the proprietor to hear.

"Fair enough. Use your discretion, Teldryn."

"Gladly." The Dunmer swallowed down the last of his bread, drained his tankard of ale, and stood up. "I'll be back soon. Just stay here so I know where to find you."

And with that, Gelebor's company was reduced to one. He remained motionless until Teldryn had closed the front door behind him.

Immediately, Vidrald asked, in that immaculately gentle tone he seemed to like using, "Are you feeling all right, Gelebor?"

The snow elf nodded, and set about another spoonful of stew. It was cooling off a fair bit. He didn't mind, honestly. At the time of its serving, it had been rather terribly hot. "Today is quite a day for me," he answered quietly, before realizing that his answer had not addressed the question. "I'm very well. Possibly better than in a long time."

"I'm glad to hear." Vidrald hadn't finished his ale, and was still sipping at it as they spoke. "I hope you're enjoying the food. I certainly did, after all that… vaguely food-like sustenance."

"The drink is a little much," he admitted, which elicited a laugh from the Nord. He should have expected that reaction, really. "I scarcely remember what food I used to eat, during my young days. It was simple, like this, I believe. But that was long ago, in a Skyrim that no longer exists. This is the first meal of my new life."

Vidrald let out a slow, quiet breath. "I understand," he said, eventually. "I'm honored to share this moment with you. It's a small moment, I suppose, but your service to Auri-El brought you to Teldryn and me. It's hard not to feel perhaps a little special, in the wake of that."

Truth be told, Gelebor had never quite thought of it that way. He had considered himself very lucky to have found the companions he had, and, in kind, grateful to Auri-El for leading him to their path to begin with. But not until now had he ever considered that perhaps his companions might think the same of him.

If this all kept up, he was going to begin weeping, really. There was only so much his heart could bear. He set about busily finishing his stew while he still had the composure to do so.

"You should try the bread," Vidrald said. "It tastes delicious."

And that was it. Gelebor managed to get the last spoonful down, but he had no chance to stop and enjoy the fullness in his belly. His eyes were already running with silent tears. There truly was only so much his heart could bear. It had borne more loss than he could even comprehend, and yet only now did he finally feel truly touched.

He whispered, "I never thought I would taste bread again." The tears wouldn't stop. The snow elf squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to focus. Did Auri-El wish this for him?

It would seem so, at first glance. If nothing else, this day was unavoidable, once Auri-El had sent him back into the greater world of Tamriel. Gelebor had a great task ahead of him, he knew, but he was glad for every blessing he had been given on the way.

"Try it," Vidrald repeated, as gently as ever.

And so Gelebor tried it. First, he took a bite of the bread as it was. He allowed himself to take it in—its crisp, dry crust, and its soft, faintly sweet interior. The taste of bread. He welcomed it with a smile.

Then he began mopping up his stew, because that was what he was supposed to do with it. It soaked up well, at least.

Vidrald asked, "How is it?"

Gelebor considered the blessings he had been given on his way thus far. His new friends, the sight of Dragon Bridge, the taste of this food. The sort of things that all people of Tamriel enjoyed. Gelebor had walked out of Darkfall Cave empowered only by his will to serve Auri-El, and protect the Aurbis by extension. Now, he was being shown a very tangible thing worth setting out and defending.

He replied, "… It's a little dry, actually. It might have been better when it was fresh from the oven."

"You're probably right. Perhaps next time."

"Yes." Gelebor set about finishing the slice. Good enough, he thought. It wasn't like anyone had asked him to pay up the gold for these particular blessings himself.


	18. Logrolf 3

Fredas, 4:38 PM, 9th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Eastmarch Impact Crater

His eyes opened. Breath entered his lungs.

Before him was a blue sunlit sky. The glare was weak, yet it hurt him to look at. How could it hurt so much, what had happened to him?

Mortal form. He was trapped in a mortal form, a mortal prison he couldn't get out, he tried yet he couldn't. He was no longer the purity of an idea in empty space, he was wrongly forced in this shell of two arms and two legs and everything wrong, he couldn't escape, he was trapped he was trapped he was trapped… What had he _done?_

He writhed in place on the ground. He felt the ground beneath him. There was stone, and gravel, and every speck of it every mote was disgusting. The breath continued to flow through him. This foul mortal air was inside his own body.

What had he done? What was he meant to be, no who was he now? He had no name, no identity, no race, it filled him with dread, he nearly didn't want to know the answer. Yet he had to.

He had to, because the void was maddening. His thoughts scraped against one another painfully, gaps in logic he couldn't the logic why were his thoughts so wrong, it hurt, every second he tried to think, it hurt. With the pain came anger, and he knew anger well he knew his pain there was too much suffering _he had to think_. His anger could wait for another time. Now was the time to examine… to examine what he even was.

Memories of another mind lingered in the back of his own. He scanned them briefly, reluctantly, they were so repulsive they were weak but he scanned them all the same, and he learned who he was. Logrolf. The name filled him with contempt inside. Logrolf, a mortal of the land of Skyrim.

Logrolf was a Nord. This felt dishonest felt repulsive he couldn't be this, he was not this man. Yet Logrolf was the only name he now had.

He reached back with his arms and pushed himself upright. The mortal muscles of his throat gasped and wheezed for breath, more breath, and every breath was so disgusting but he could not stop himself from doing it. He pushed this body this prison he lived in upright, and focused his eyes on what was before him.

The being with the name of Logrolf was in a rough, cracked dish of stone, a giant dish, at its exact center, the edges far away from where he sat. Directly before him was a great sphere of engraved stone, a sphere or a container the conduit this was the conduit, _this was the conduit_. He remembered now.

He had been brought into being from nothing, by the mortal named Logrolf. And he had done the only thing he could bear to do, and leapt through the conduit and taken Logrolf's body for a vessel. He could use this vessel this tool he could use it as a weapon, somehow, he knew. There was no limit to what things deserved to be destroyed. He had seen all of existence and it disgusted him.

This body had changed, he knew. It had adapted or expanded it had become something greater than the stinking meat and frail bone, the putrid flesh that all beings were made from, that never could have sustained him and he was glad for this change. He held one of his hands up before him, and saw that the skin had become a gray and cracked armored shell. And as he looked, he understood that this form's change had been for his benefit. It would need to serve well for what was to come.

He stood up and examined his physical form or his prison his confines yet more. The denizen of Skyrim had come to this place with his body adorned in shaped and stitched cloth, and the being still wore it now. It was irrelevant, he could barely feel it, he left it and moved on.

There was a presence behind him, a painful signal in his mortal head, more pain the pain inside him, he turned around to look and he saw exactly what he had expected—more mortals. He counted three of them walking towards him, still small and distant, they were so disgusting they were bugs they were worms he couldn't bear the sight of them, he wanted to crush them right now and he couldn't. Why couldn't he?

His thoughts were still wrong, he realized, they were scrambled he was going to panic they were unable to they wouldn't assist him and he was afraid. He felt fear in him, he knew these mortals would hurt him but that wasn't what caused this feeling. They were repulsive, they had to be destroyed or be wiped expunged away and he _couldn't use his power._ He couldn't control his thoughts, they were out of control they had splintered and he was so afraid but he could only stand still.

The mortals came closer. He could not bear the sight of them, they were so filthy but he had to look, he couldn't look away, they were his truth now and this was the world he existed in and he had to see it. He could see their bodies, tottering along on their pairs of jointed stilts, rocking them up and down over the broken stones, the stilts were made of meat and so was the rest of them and it had no place in existence, who could have created something as horrible as grotesque as unworthy as this? And then—

One of them made a noise.

"Hello?"

It came as a shriek. A scraping grinding agony in his ears, broken sound over raw nerves, the noise of a mortal body spraying its mortal air through its lips, and he knew it was meant to give information, give ideas, something, he couldn't keep track any longer—it hurt so badly, he couldn't make the pain stop. He had to make the pain stop.

He screamed, a mortal scream that stung and boiled in his own ears his own mind but he couldn't stop screaming, it hurt so badly. It had to stop. His body tilted and toppled it collapsed onto its bony joints, he could feel the fear and the desperation the need in him and he had to act now, he had to act or this would be his end. He looked up and reached out with one arm, his gray hand open wide, and sent a jet of roaring burning horrible flame outward, and the meat on the mortal bodies seared and cooked and burned and the bodies fell motionless, and the agony began to fade.

The being rolled his body onto its side, he couldn't control it but his hands were gripping his head, his mortal eyes were leaking with wetness and he didn't understand. He didn't understand and these mortals were so invasive they were malignant they were in his head still and they all had to leave, he had to make them leave now, and they would never do it. His thoughts would not cooperate with him they were too different they weren't his own and they made no sense, why wouldn't they make sense… This had to stop and that was the only thought that all of him agreed on.

This had to stop. He repeated that thought. This had to stop. The thought was enough for him, he had to hold onto it and remember it—this had to stop. He kept thinking it, over and over. Not the words, not the mortal connotations and repulsive sounds, but the feeling, the idea, the one thing that made him get up and move. This had to stop. He could do this.

He pushed his body upright again, and made it walk back towards the conduit. He fell against it, and laid his fingers upon it, to touch to connect to come home to his world, he had to do it, this had to stop. This had to stop.

The path reopened to him it adapted it was there for him and he saw back into the Aurbis, and he knew. He knew what had to be done. He could not fight or murder wage war he could not exterminate these mortals personally, his prison made him too feeble in this world, but the conduit was the key. The conduit would allow him to undo this all where it began, the magic the creation realm whose name was a foulness on mortal tongues but he knew it well. Aetherius. The apex of all things, the atlas of the world, the place of power and the source of life. He understood himself poorly, he fought he conflicted he did not match himself, but Aetherius was another thing he did understand. This had to stop—and he knew of Aetherius. Two separate thoughts. These were what he understood.

The light of Aetherius was bright, too bright, he knew it well and it was meant to fade through the veil of Oblivion. But the veil was but a few paltry wisps, these were remnants, crumbs and scraps of something grand, these would never form together as one barrier, the magic was coming through too much. This was good. Logrolf could use this—Logrolf, was his name Logrolf? The name his identity his former identity—he stopped that thought where it was, this was no time for that, this had to stop, this had to stop, he agreed with himself, he would proceed. This would make it stop.

He could not deal with the mortals himself, but he could use this conduit instead. This had to stop, and that idea was not simply for his own pain, it was for all things. He would make Aetherius stop. The magic would focus on the world and begin to burn it, and he would need only to keep it as it was, and it would suffice it would do what he needed and make this mortal world stop being itself.

This had always been his intention, he knew, his need, his purpose, some part of him understood or grasped or was that much. To make everything stop, but above all—this world. This horrible, false disgusting incorrect contrived ephemeral world of Mundus. Even as an idea, a distant concept, it repulsed him, and here he was trapped within it! It was fitting, that he would use Aetherius, the source of all that made this repugnant place what it was, to bring about to hasten to steer it into its end. All he had to do was… to make it stop.

He reached out into Aetherius, and grabbed. Foreign sensations, alien power so much power it was overwhelming—it filled his grasp, and he held on with all of his strength. He anchored all he could to this conduit, he had the power, he could not control this realm it was not his own but this conduit was the key and he knew how to use it. The distant reaches, the atlas of Aetherius he locked it against the tumult and chaos the terrible movement of Mundus would not protect it now. The large things, the near things, those he could not touch, or he could not move, he was too little and they were too great, but it mattered not. This much would be more than enough, with time.

And then it was done. He had done it. No one in either realm had stopped him, and no one could, because it was not within their reach, only his own, only Logrolf's or the being's the one who needed it to stop. One simple action, one motion taking a span of seconds, artificial measurements and contrivances of course the measure of time was not so simple but it was truly brief, and the world was set on its course to destruction. That was good. He only needed time, however measured—he needed time.

The mortals would resist. They would try to stop him. He knew this, he understood he expected it and the thought made him hurt but he would not hide from it. Some had already found this place, and it would attract more. A simple solution came to him. His mind was as splintered it could not last long, but he had this idea, he knew he could meet this challenge. The mortals were strong, he could not defend this open space in the foul earth. Yet it mattered not.

This conduit was anchored to Aetherius, but its own location in Mundus could change. It would be a simple task, an afterthought a crucial detail to move this abstraction of smooth stone to someplace less obvious to the mortal eye. Or the immortal eye, for he knew others would be watching. He could take this task on. This still had to stop, and he would see it through.

His knowledge of this land was all made of mortal memory. But he must have remembered something of use, some tool some legacy he could do this he had to search and demand and—this had to stop. This had to stop. How could he let this continue to stop?

He would need to find a location, a suitable a hidden location, he could do this. He focused narrowed his connection on the conduit, and looked back upon himself.

Skyrim. Logrolf had memories of Skyrim. He sifted waded endured through them as deeply as his thoughts would allow, and held onto the most vivid onto the most the useful ones. A map of Skyrim, dots on a flat plane, contained in an irregular shape, a crude representation of a false reality but it would suffice. He scanned it for locations he might know, and one quickly appeared to him.

The conduit would obey his will. He was its master now, and he would use it to his own effect. Its power was his own. He laid his mortal hands against its stone, and

the Aurbis

a racing tunnel of stars

looping into itself

changing and turning the path

twisting and returning once more

Logrolf was underground. The conduit rested it floated it was secure before him. It did not touch the floor, but it would not move, as its location in Mundus was now fixed also. He was in no less pain here than before in the origin the crater, but he did not care he knew this would do well. This would stop soon.

Now, he needed to ensure that this location prison would remain invisible remain effective _this had to stop_ he focused and thought. It would have to remain unseen by immortal eyes. He reached out and touched the conduit once again.

The pinpoints of Aetherius were locked in the same pace as Mundus by the conduit's unseen power, yet the conduit itself—that could be seen. He began to change the conduit's shape, to change its identity to hide what it was or where it was, he could do this, he could make this work. No one would find him here, as long as—

A golden mask stared at him in the starry expanse.

It was silent, distant, he could not touch it but he sensed it, and it sensed him. A foreign presence, an immortal life not a mortal, but… This was wrong.

Logrolf stared, uncomprehending, none of his mind recognized this, or some of him no none of him recognized this. It was new. The mask was not of a mortal face, but of something else. Something repulsive yet unique, with slits for eyes and tusks by its mouth-plate.

The sight of it filled him with fear with knowledge it gave him his first true other presence, it was not right.

Time stretched on, delayed, silence passed, and the mask stared. Logrolf had to do something. He had no need to use his crude his guttural mortal ways of speech, but he reached out touched the mask with an idea. "Who are you?"

"I know you," the voice spoke, and punished him by its sound, it was immortal but it was of Mundus, it was not of this place. It was a foreign voice, but something was… "Or I think I do. Do you remember me?"

Logrolf felt something. Did he remember this mask? He remembered something. Something swift, something terrible something that had happened with him. Not one of the mortal Logrolf's old memories, but another. He knew, he understood he recognized this was an enemy. This was a killer, a merciless a swift and decisive killer. Yet the enemy was not attempting to kill him now. They could not touch one another.

He would need to choose his reply with care, the wrong answer or the betrayal the revelation it would ruin his only hope. This enemy, it did not know him, it did not recognize the form he had taken. He thought he understood. This enemy had hurt some part of him. Something that the one called Logrolf had put in this splintered this amalgamated mess, this mind he thought with now. It would hurt him again, it would sabotage him it would keep him trapped in this horror this clawing cage the reality he was in now—this had to stop. It would stop soon. But he told the enemy none of this.

His reply instead was, "You are mistaken. You know nothing of me. Begone, immortal."

And then he withdrew from the conduit, and left the connection behind. The masked enemy, the immortal threat it would not it could not touch his conduit. The connection to Mundus was here.

Of course, the mortals would try to find the conduit. They would try to destroy it they would save themselves in their final hour, as they always did. Logrolf expected this. He knew these creatures were cunning and cruel, more than he could ever be, and he expected it all of them.

And so he proceeded, he concluded with what he had intended on before meeting the mask, and laid a careful shroud of magic over the aura of this conduit. He was careful not to venture too deep this time, but he was thorough he knew that this was vital and there would be no mistake. Using the conduit's own power the magicka the Aetherial abstraction, he laid over it a phantom aura of another sort, black where there was white, white where there was black; hills where there were valleys, valleys where there were hills. It was not perfect, as nothing would be in this fetid pit of a world, but the sheer strength the connection of this conduit was hidden from view. This realm was filled with tiny pockets, scars, imperfections of magic, and this would blend in.

He stood back and viewed his handiwork, appraised it appraised himself, one more time. This form was a truly disgusting thing to be trapped within—he contained that feeling. This would stop in due time. He was impaired, but he was a fast worker, and he understood his mission, his goal his need everything he worked towards, he understood what he had to do. The mortals would try to disrupt his plan. He anticipated this, he knew this, and so he had hidden this conduit. No one would know to look for it—there would be nothing to look for.

Now it would be time to move to the next part the next step of his intentions. He would bear the pain or he shouldered this burden, the fragments would stay together, they would need to until it was all complete.

And then… then he would… He pondered the end to that idea. What would happen next, where he would go what he would be after this plan was complete.

He realized immediately that it was irrelevant.

It mattered not to him whether his existence ended along with that of this world. He did not do this for a future, for some far-flung hope for some hope of power or victory. He did this because everything, everything he had touched, everything he had seen was all the same horrific blight. These mortal creatures, this earth and sky, the air he breathed at this very moment—all of it. Every last fragment, every mote every thread of this reality was wrong. And it had to stop.


	19. Thorald 3

Tirdas, 3:35 PM, 19th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Winterhold

Thorald's first sight of Winterhold came suddenly and dramatically. He'd been traversing the ice and snow of the tundra with his companions for three days. Today, it was a bleak, cloudy afternoon, with bits of snow blowing about in the wind. He'd actually started to wonder why they hadn't seen the city yet, since the trip was supposed to be three days long. They should have been on top of it by now.

And then he climbed to a top of a hill and—there it was. A tiny handful of wooden buildings on the edge of a cliff, and a big stone citadel on a giant rock column beyond it, connected by a precarious-looking bridge. Winterhold.

It didn't exactly fill him with excitement. But he had nothing against the place, even if there wasn't much to it. He was just here today for a stupid reason.

If it'd been under better circumstances, he might've actually looked forward to this mission. He'd actually never been to Winterhold before, even with Alftand being so close by. Plus, any other time than now, he might've actually had a hope of exploring the College. He'd always wanted to see how things were in there. Maybe give Savos a little surprise visit, if he was in. That might've been actually fun.

But no, he was here for a stupid reason. If he had a choice, he would've preferred to be back in the Silent City, greeting his brothers-in-arms as they returned from Markarth. And Zaryth had been about to go to do some big project outside Blackreach, and he hadn't been able to see her off because of this. Orders were orders, though, and Jarl Noster did need an escort.

There were six of them, walking down the hillside. Jarl Noster, Thorald Gray-Mane, and the rest of Squad 29. The Jarl was walking out in front, clad in a magnificent fur cloak that made him look every part the Nord explorer. Thorald and his squad were following along, dressed in their Black Machine uniforms. No cloaks for them, just some necklaces from J'zargo, enchanted to stave off the cold. Worked just as well.

Thorald was pretty sure that Noster had one too. It was going to be great. He'd walk into the Jarl's longhouse without so much as a runny nose.

The longhouse was easy to identify. Besides the College, it was the largest building in the city. Noster led the way down the snowy path and merged them onto the paved road leading into the city. A few guards were on patrol out here. They stopped and stared, apparently dumbstruck, at the newcomers walking on by.

Strange. They should've at least recognized the armor. The Dragonborn had sent some Black Gears here during the trouble with Morokei, same as all the other hold capitals. Or actually, maybe the guards did recognize it, and that was why they were just staring blankly instead of running and screaming.

Either way, they just walked right into the city. It felt like walking into any other small town in the north, except for the College right there.

"Remember," Noster said over his shoulder, "let me do the talking. You'll all be much better at your jobs if you're silent for this."

"Yeah, yeah," Thorald grumbled.

"I mean it. We're in serious politics here."

Thorald made an affronted look, which was totally lost behind his visor. "I said yeah!"

"Surrious politicksh," Echallos said, wagging his upper half back and forth rigidly. The other squadmates laughed.

This was practically more than they'd talked for the entire trip so far. Usually, Squad 29 had a bit of a playful back-and-forth, even while they were out on their deadliest missions. But they had the Jarl with them, and it felt like everyone was trying to put on a professional face for him.

Thorald kind of wished they wouldn't, because he was pretty sure Noster didn't need them to act like the machines they looked like. Even if he did command respect from his subordinates, the man wasn't exactly General Tullius. But it seemed to be a point of pride for Thorald's squadmates. Jarl Noster wasn't part of the Black Machine, even if he did head up their chain of command, and they were going to do right by him.

Even if it meant following him into Winterhold for what felt like a really stupid reason.

The longhouse was coming up on their left. It was sort of depressing how deserted these streets were. Thorald wondered what this city had been like, say, two hundred and fifty years ago. Before the Great Collapse, before the Oblivion Crisis. Winterhold had been the capital of Skyrim back then. It must've been like the best parts of Solitude and Windhelm combined, all the trade and bustling commerce with a whole lot of ancient Nord culture on top.

And now look. Forget being the capital of Skyrim, this didn't even look like the capital of a hold. It couldn't have had more than a couple hundred people in it. Yet here they were, coming up to the living space of one of Skyrim's nine—no, ten Jarls.

Actually, as it happened, that discrepancy with the number of Jarls was basically why they were here. Noster was responding to a letter he'd received the other day. For their benefit, he'd shared it with the whole squad escorting him. Thorald remembered it going something like,

Noster Eagle-Eye:

By my authority as the Jarl of Winterhold, I hereby summon you to present yourself at my noble court in the hold capital. We must have words. Your defiance of the laws and customs of Skyrim has gone on for too long. Speak with me, before the Empire demands your presence itself.

-Jarl Korir

So, all in all, pretty stupid. But they were still going into Winterhold for it, and Noster seemed to think it mattered somehow. So here they were.

The doors of the longhouse were less than a minute's walk away. There was literally no one out here but guards. Thorald would wager that these folk were not getting paid well enough for their job.

Then again, _he_ wasn't really getting paid either. At least he got free potions.

One of his squadmates—Decarro, their only Imperial, numbered 29 · 5—asked, "What do we do if they attack us?"

"That's a really strange question, Decarro," Thorald said.

"Well, I know, but we don't want to make this situation worse than it is. Should we just let them arrest us or whatever it'll be?"

"They're not going to attack us," Noster answered irritably. "… But if they do, try not to kill anyone. That would be more trouble than it's worth."

Thorald added, "And leave the talking to you, my Jarl."

"Don't call me that. That's weird."

"You _want_ people to call you that."

The Jarl threw his hands in the air. "Well, not _you!_ "

Thorald grinned. "Well, Noster, honey, if you don't want to be formal about this—"

"No, we're not doing this right now—"

That just made him grin more. "But it's important for us to communicate—"

"Shh, shh, the door's coming up. Pretend to be an actual soldier." Noster walked up the steps to the Winterhold longhouse, and pulled the doors wide open. Inside was a nice, warm, completely boring small-town great hall.

Thorald followed him in, and his squadmates filed in behind. This hall was about as small as it could get while still counting as spacious. It was a double-height room, with a gray stone floor, and with wooden walls and columns holding it up. The wood was weathered to the point where it was barely a different color from the floor. And it all felt much less spacious than it was, because the middle of the floor was taken up by hearths. Two small ones, in a row, contained by low ring-shaped stone barriers, just burning away and keeping the place livable.

As he stepped inside, he was able to see more of the hall's inner details. To his mild annoyance, the walls were decorated with animal skulls. Mainly of mammoths—he counted three mammoth skulls just at the far end of the room alone. He might have liked them more if he'd thought there were any chance the mammoths had been hunted anytime in the past century. But right by them, two drab green-blue banners were hanging, adorned with Winterhold's coat of arms—and between them was Jarl Korir, slouched listlessly on his throne.

So this was the heart of Winterhold's capital. All Thorald could think of was Blackreach's debate hall, with the sun-orb overhead, and the courtyard below, and so much magical splendor everywhere. How was this ever supposed to match up?

The little procession filed inside without any trouble. He heard someone closing the door after them—probably Decarro, since he'd be coming up last. Besides Jarl Korir and the guards, it seemed like this place was actually pretty empty. Presumably, there was a steward around somewhere. Did Korir even have a housecarl? He must have.

When they got past the second of the two hearths, Noster moved to center himself just before the steps to Korir's little throne platform. Thorald stood beside him and half a pace behind, and the others wordlessly assembled into a loose wedge around the hearth. Six of them, one of Korir. It couldn't get more obvious than this.

Thorald had never seen Korir before. He was a bit younger as jarls went, with handsome, bearded features and nice red hair, and surprisingly nice noble attire. Probably the only good-looking thing on this side of the College's bridge. At the moment, he was sitting stock still, upright in his chair, eyes wide with shock at the sight of the Black Gears standing at attention. Eventually, he focused on Noster, and changed to an annoyed glower.

"I asked for _you_ , Noster," he said. "Not you and your favorite band of killers. What, do you want to annex Winterhold? Slay me in my own hall?"

Noster lowered his hood. Beneath it, he had an ornate dwarven metal circlet on his bald head, which actually made it look a lot less unbecoming. Thorald had no idea what it was enchanted with, but it couldn't possibly have been just regular metal. In any case, Noster smiled pleasantly and shook his head. "No, I just wanted to make sure I'd be all right if this were some sort of trap. We're not exactly in a neutral meeting ground."

"Don't you have a housecarl you could have brought?" Korir was getting over his discomfort very quickly, or at least making a show of the same.

Someone appeared into Thorald's field of vision, from the right—a Nord woman, white-haired but fairly young, wearing a dark green dress. Korir's wife, perhaps. She edged past Thorald's squadmates and walked up to join the Jarl at his side, standing and glaring down at them silently.

Noster asked, "Don't you?"

"It's her," Korir snapped, pointing to the woman beside him. "My beloved wife and housecarl Thaena, and all the protection I need, unlike yourself."

 _That_ was Korir's housecarl? She didn't even have a sword, just a little dagger on her belt. Everyone had a dagger. Assassins had daggers. Noster seemed to have the same reaction, but he didn't let it slow him down for long. He cleared his throat and continued. "As you can see, I got your letter. Is there some sort of problem, Jarl Korir?"

"Don't play coy with me, Noster." He was pointedly not referring to Noster as a jarl in return. Subtle. "There are nine holds of Skyrim, not ten. I don't know what you're playing at, but it will end badly."

Noster frowned and inclined his head, as though not understanding. "Korir, let's be clear, I'm not trying to start any trouble. Alftand has a lot of people in it, and so does Blackreach. It happens that Blackreach spans multiple holds of Skyrim, and it needs _some_ kind of leadership, so… This makes sense, right?"

Korir went silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled, overly so. "This wasn't a problem back when Alftand was just a home for refugees. I understood that, so I didn't step in. But making yourself Jarl is crossing a line. You're telling us that you won't be held to answer to anyone. That you won't have to pay any taxes, you won't have to report your citizens' crimes, you'll just have your own little kingdom."

"Oh, is _that_ it?" Noster cut him off before he could say more. "You want to tax Alftand?"

"That's not the point," Korir said firmly. "It's not about gold. Of course, if gold _is_ coming into Alftand, it's unfair for the rest of us for it to not leave the city. Is any coming in, by chance?"

"I presume so," Noster shrugged.

The younger Jarl's face twisted in sudden contempt. "You _presume_ so. That's just perfect. Oh, you have such a lovely little city, you don't even need to keep track of your gold! Do you realize what you're putting us through? How little gold we have to run our hold with? You're just like the College, hiding behind your closed doors and your magical threats, operating with impunity—"

"Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying you _don't_ tax the College?" Noster sounded like he was trying to hold in a laugh. "What? How can you possibly justify taxing us when you can't handle what's on your own doorstep?"

"You may have noticed that most of the city is _missing_ ," Korir said, still with that condescending tone. "The College saw to that. They've been perfect at keeping us from finding any proof, but they did it. You hear me? They ruined this city. You expect them to do that and then pay us taxes?"

Noster shook his head incredulously. "Tens of thousands of septims circulate through that place every year. You could rebuild this city if you tapped into that."

Korir was just getting more and more tense. "And who's going to collect it, hmm? Our guards? They wouldn't even make it across the bridge!"

And here Thorald was, standing by, looking intimidating. He knew Korir would've been just as bitter and uncooperative whether Noster had brought him or not, but honestly, he felt sort of bad, standing here. Korir didn't need intimidating. It felt like he deserved pity, more than anything. The same went for his whole city. Apparently, they'd lost more than their buildings during the Great Collapse. Their vision of the future had fallen away just the same. It was really quite sad.

"Jarl Korir, please. Listen me." Noster held up his hands in an appeasing sort of gesture. "From one Jarl to another. Your hold needs you, but it doesn't need you to go after me. My hall is all the way over in Hjaalmarch. Your people are right here, and you should be looking after them."

But Korir just tightened his fists and shook his head. "You're… not… a Jarl. Stop saying you are. You don't have that authority."

"And who does, Korir? There's no High King to make this judgment, and Blackreach needs governing. What would _you_ rather we do?"

"Cooperate, for one. You don't want this to go to the Empire. They're not going to be as lenient as I am."

What an absurd statement. Of course they wanted this to go to the Empire, they'd support Noster in a heartbeat—

All of the sudden, it hit Thorald. It hit him like a big stupid smack in the face. He knew why Noster was going out of his way to do this meeting. Why he'd brought Squad 29 along, why he was going through all this insipid discussion, the whole thing.

Jarl Korir obviously couldn't back up any threats he might make. But he was still a Jarl, one out of nine—or ten, maybe, but for most people's purposes, nine. And he was baiting Noster into just going to the Empire for support. The moment he did that, Korir could accuse Noster of being an Imperial puppet, and from there…

Well, there wasn't a High King of Skyrim right now. And Korir had one voice out of nine. He could spur the others—because most of them were pointedly lukewarm to the Empire, if even that—to choose a High King who would declare Noster's rule illegitimate. Then Alftand would be his for the taking.

That was his plan to make Winterhold great again. Surprisingly clever, actually. He didn't have enough power to do it himself, so he'd prop up a High King who could. Maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise, though. Thorald supposed there wasn't much to do out here besides think. Or scheme, as it were.

But Noster didn't seem too affected. He said, "I'm willing to have a civil conversation with you about this. Like you said—cooperate. But you can't ask me to hand over the authority over Alftand to you. What do you think would happen if we did? There are a thousand people in Alftand. Do you know anything about their situation, about their resources? I know I do."

"A thousand? Now I know you're lying to me. There are _eight_ thousand people in your city." Korir scowled at him. "And I'd thank you not to say otherwise."

Now, finally, Noster showed a hint of anger. It was just the tiniest frown, but it said everything. This wasn't going to be pretty. "There _were_ eight thousand people in Alftand, until the Aldmeri Dominion swept in and butchered most of them. That was months ago. Back at the start of Sun's Dawn. They sent an entire army across Skyrim—ask around if you don't believe me. They sent an army, and they slaughtered us. And where was their Jarl of Winterhold then?"

Korir fell silent. And he stayed that way for a long while. He put his hand to his mouth, and stared off into space, shaking his head slowly. Then eventually, he returned his attention to Noster. "I'm sorry," he said, a fair bit more calmly than before. "Had I known, I would have done something. But this doesn't make you their Jarl. What you're doing is that you're taking Skyrim's resources, her gold, her supplies, her best workers, and you're hoarding them. You're keeping them for yourself. If you keep this up, the Empire's going to step in, and I don't think you want to get into that fight."

"We're not hoarding anything. The proof is right behind me." Noster pointed a thumb over his shoulder, right at Thorald's chest. That made him feel sort of proud, in a strange, petty little way. He was being used as a good example. Still, he remained silent while Noster kept talking. "The Dragonborn started the settlement in Alftand because Skyrim needed a safe haven from the Thalmor. And he used his resources to create the Black Machine. You know just as well as I do that the 14th Unit would've reduced all nine holds to smoldering ash by now without them."

"Having your own army doesn't exactly improve your standing," Korir said dryly. "There's already an army in Skyrim, it's called the Imperial Legion. One more thing for you to clash about. You may not realize it, but I'm trying to help you."

A total falsehood, whether Korir was aware of it or not. He must have been aware of it. Everyone in Skyrim thought well of the Black Machine, the Legion included.

After all, it'd been the Black Machine to avenge the Legion's losses at Rorikstead. Thorald very clearly remembered taking part in that. He'd gotten to sneak up behind a Thalmor mage and slit their throat and everything. And he also very clearly remembered coming back to Solitude a while later, and having a pleasant chat with General Tullius, while wearing his Black Machine armor at that. If Jarl Korir wanted to lie about Blackreach's standing with the Empire, he could've picked a better audience than the actual people from Blackreach.

Unless, of course, he was already planning on them contacting the Empire to ask for support on this. Thorald had thought that it was only the Thalmor who did this kind of political scheming. Winterhold couldn't have been much more of a disappointment.

Once again, Noster seemed to be having the same reaction. He put his hands on his hips and stared at Korir impatiently. "No, it doesn't sound like you are. It sounds like you have no idea what's been happening with us. Seriously, just tax the College. They'll obey you. If it gets out that they've actually fought back, they can kiss the last of their reputation goodbye."

Korir pursed his lips and stared off to the side silently, like he was seriously considering Noster's idea. Maybe he actually was. Kind of hard to say. But then he looked up again, and made eye contact with Thorald himself. Not Noster. He was definitely looking right at Thorald. "You there," he said. "What's your name?"

"Thorald Gray-Mane," he replied, in his best deep-gruff-Nord voice.

"A Gray-Mane, eh? That's a surprise. You're a long way from home." Apparently, Korir knew his noble families. Good for him, then. "Take off your helmet, would you? I can't talk to that visor."

Thorald turned his head towards Noster, who gave him a tiny, sidelong nod. It had to come from his own Jarl, after all. Then he looked back at the Jarl of Winterhold, unclasped his helmet's strap, and pulled it off his head one fluid motion. He held it in one hand, at his side, his fingers flexing against its edge. "As you can see, my hair is, in fact, gray."

Korir looked oddly curious. His unpleasant demeanor had abandoned him. "How… old are you, if I may ask?"

"Forty-two," he said. "Forty-three in a couple weeks. It's been gray for over a decade now, though. The name Gray-Mane isn't exactly symbolic."

The young Jarl actually smirked. That was a sight. "Well. It's a pleasure to meet a true son of Skyrim. Perhaps a bit less so to meet one in these circumstances, but still. I have plenty of respect for your house."

Oh, that explained it. The man knew about House Gray-Mane because it was one of the houses to declare their support for the Stormcloaks. It sort of went without saying that Winterhold had been in the same camp. The Stormcloaks were ancient history, though. Jarl Ulfric had been killed just around when Thorald had been broken out of Northwatch. Sun's Dusk of last year, he thought.

"So," Korir continued, "what _do_ you make of all this? I'm sure you've been listening to our discussion."

Thorald frowned. That was uncalled for. In any case, he chose his words carefully. He hadn't expected to say anything at all in here, so it took a little time. "It's… just as you said, Jarl Korir. I am a son of Skyrim. My duty in the Black Machine has been to protect Skyrim and her people. On this matter, we and the Empire agree entirely. I'm, uh… not sure where you got your idea that we're getting along poorly with them."

Noster glanced back and gave him a little head-pointing nod of approval. That made him feel good again. Oh, he could get used to following this man around places. He just felt so important.

Anyway, Jarl Korir didn't seem very persuaded, no surprise there. He just smirked again and let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Well-spoken, for a soldier. You'll have a good chance to see how your army stands the test of time."

Maybe there was some element of truth to that. The Black Machine was separate from the Legion's chain of command. They only got along because the people in charge were on friendly terms. But Korir had no reason to care about that. If he really thought the Empire would dismantle Blackreach's independence for him, he wouldn't be going to all these lengths to warn them. He would've just waited, and then reaped the results. Thorald wondered how much of this was occurring to Noster as well. They'd have to talk, once they were done here.

"If that's all," Noster said, "I'd like to be going now. I'm afraid I don't have much else to say for you."

For a moment, Korir looked like he was going to say something angry, but then he just sighed and nodded. "As you wish. You did come here as I asked. Just be aware that this isn't over with. One way or another."

What a parting threat. Thorald could've been so much more impressed than he was. Noster turned to leave, and so Squad 29 did the same. Thorald put his helmet back on as they headed out past the hearths. To his surprise, he actually sort of welcomed the feeling of the armor concealing him. Showing his face in here had felt just strange.

It was snowing outside. The air should have been a merciless biting cold, but Thorald's necklace made it feel like little more than a brisk coolness. To no one's surprise, the streets were still basically empty. The six of them poured out in due order, and once again, Decarro closed the door behind them. And that was that. The meeting was over.

For a moment, they were all just standing there outside the longhouse, looking at each other. It felt a little like how Thorald felt with his squad after a fight with the enemy. Like they'd just survived a big ordeal together, and now they could have their moment of relief.

Echallos said, "We traveled three days for _that?_ "

One of the twins—Thorald looked and saw her number ended with 2, so Alysca—replied, "It could be worse. We could've had to fight something."

"Oh, shut up," Decarro muttered.

Noster turned and started walking down the street. He beckoned for them over his shoulder. "Come on! We have a long walk ahead of us!"

Clearly, the Jarl of Blackreach was not in a good mood. That was fair enough. He wasn't about to stand around congratulating his soldiers for standing there and looking scary.

This was one more little thing about what it was like in the Black Machine. At the end of the day, they all had a job to do, and they were expected to just do it. All of them were decently prepared to deal with that—if they weren't, they wouldn't have been brought down to Blackreach to start—but sometimes, there were just these little reminders that, no, they couldn't just relax. It was its own subtle kind of exhausting.

All the same, Thorald made a point of catching up with Noster as they walked. They had some discussing to do.


	20. Aicantar 4

**The character Rem, as with Zaryth, is an OC belonging to countess z. The story in which Rem originally appeared in is titled Forsaken House, and takes place in 4E 201. I couldn't resist the chance to throw in the cameo.**

Morndas, 7:38 PM, 18th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Alftand

Aicantar understood why the dragons had been such natural tyrants in their time. There was probably some mental aspect to it, some strange reality about the workings of a dragon soul or something. But there was clearly, obviously more to it than that. Odahviing had described as "seeing the world as only a dragon can", which Aicantar thought pretty much nailed it.

Today, this morning, he'd climbed on top of the dragon's back and been lifted out of the Castle Dour courtyard. A beautiful journey through the sky had ensued. Once Aicantar got used to seeing everything from so high up—he suspected Odahviing was staying kind of low to the ground for his sake, but this was still something like a hundred feet in the air—he had a chance to enjoy what was basically the fastest-moving panorama of his life. Rivers and streams and wetlands and trees all rushed by beneath them, practically at a blur. In the distance, hills and mountains inched by at a visible rate. And when he turned his head to the side, he didn't even have a blinding gale of wind in his face! It kept knocking his hood down anyway.

But it was a beautiful journey, from start to finish. Odahviing's scales weren't hard to hold onto, and the dragon was staying nice and level for him. They stopped a couple times to rest briefly, and every time they did, it was in a completely different part of Skyrim. And Aicantar had never seen any of it before. First they were landing in a muddy coastal plain, and then they were in a snowy evergreen forest, and then they were in a barren expanse of tundra. It was freezing cold by the time they got to the last one. Aicantar didn't care. This was just amazing.

Now it was evening, and they were coming down to a Dwemer city. It had to be one, he'd recognize the surface towers anywhere. They were all laid out on the sides and tops of an icy canyon. He could see some bright blue shapes on the far canyon top, too. It wasn't clear what those were. But even if he hadn't known his Dwemer cities and their locations by heart, he could tell that this was definitely Alftand. They'd made it. … In one day's time.

It was hard to grasp, just as a sheer thought—they'd started off in a nice cool riverside forest, and now there was just frozen tundra as far as the eye could see. Odahviing had flown all the way from Haafingar, across Hjaalmarch and the Pale, into the Winterhold. Four holds of Skyrim, in one day. Who wouldn't feel like Skyrim was their plaything, when it all felt so small?

The same thing applied to the people in it, probably. Aicantar was an Altmer, which made him quite a bit taller than most, but compared to Odahviing he was about the size of a newborn puppy. Probably a bit less cute, though.

Anyway, Odahviing slowed down to land gently on the canyon's edge, just by the Dwemer towers. There was a lot of wooden scaffolding and walkways around now. Looked safe enough to walk on, at least. And those blue shapes were everywhere.

Once they were on the ground, Aicantar peered over the dragon's side to give the blue shapes a closer look. With a bit of a start, he realized that he was looking at a whole crowd of ghosts, just standing around in ethereal battle gear. "Uh… Is this safe?"

"Safe?" Odahviing's deep voice rumbled uncomprehendingly. "Of course. Speak to the unliving guard. They will bring you inside."

Aicantar held still. He wasn't sure what to make of this. What he wanted right now was some kind of guide, or someone who could at least tell him why there were _ghosts_ out here. But instead, he had a dragon, whose job had been only to take him to Alftand, and who probably had better things to be doing anyway.

"Do not make me roll you off," Odahviing said.

The Altmer shot back, "I thought you said all life was precious!"

"We did already land, you are aware."

A beat went by in silence. Odahviing continued.

"Go, Aicantar. I must now leave for elsewhere. You are in good hands here."

"With the ghosts?" Aicantar frowned. "Or, uh… Well, all right, then." He obligingly swung his legs off the dragon's back and—there. Just like that, his boots were on the ice of the Winterhold. He could now officially say that he'd traveled here.

"Farewell," Odahviing said, before taking to the air and very nearly knocking Aicantar over with a gust of downdraft. And he'd sounded so compassionate earlier, too. Maybe he really did have someplace to be.

Aicantar righted himself and looked around at all the ghosts. They were watching him, expectantly. He tried smiling, sort of. As much as he could. "… Hi?"

One of the ghosts stepped forward. There must have been dozens of these things, but this one seemed to be in charge. A big fellow, in plate armor, carrying a crossbow. Except it was all blue and ethereal and so on. He addressed Aicantar in a perfectly lifelike male voice. "Welcome, dragon-rider. What brings you to Alftand?"

Dragon-rider. In all his life, Aicantar honestly never thought anyone would ever call him that. He brushed it off as best he could, and swallowed. And wiped his nose. It really _was_ cold out here. He couldn't wait to get some shelter.

He replied, "I'm here to move in. Is that all right?"

"Well, of course. We bid you welcome." The ghost glanced sideways and made a pointing gesture at Aicantar. Two others, similarly armored, peeled off from the crowd and started walking towards him. "These two will escort you inside. You'll be taken care of from there."

"All right," he nodded hesitantly. The two others were coming right up by him. Their ethereal forms were sort of misting a little. "Uh… One question, why are all of you ghosts?"

"Because the Aldmeri Dominion killed us," said the ghost right to his left. "But that wasn't enough to make us stop protecting Skyrim. Magic does strange things."

Ghost guards. That was new. Aicantar nodded again, sort of absentmindedly, as the guards started leading him over the wooden walkways, off the lip of the canyon. There were some nice big rope railings here, which was nice, because these walkways were caked with ice and he was already trying hard not to slip and fall. Still, before long, he was walking straight into the face of the canyon wall. The walkways led to the mouth of a tunnel here, right through the ice. The entrance to the Dwemer ruin.

It was kind of weird how long the walk was. It didn't even get any warmer. After a bit of winding through the freezing tunnel, the ice gave way to an unmistakably Dwemer corridor. It was dimly lit, all carved stone with metal grates and pipes everywhere. There was none of that sort of mechanical humming that was in the background of all cities. The machinery here looked and sounded like it was long dead.

"So, um…" Aicantar cleared his throat. They hadn't even passed anyone yet. He had to admit, though, this place looked far tidier than he'd expect for a ruin. Derelict, but tidy. "Where are we going, exactly?"

"Just over there." The ghost on his left pointed to an intersection coming up. Or, an open doorway, on the side of the hall. There was an open, circular space beyond it, just solid stone flooring with a sizable metal lever sitting in the middle. The lever handle was pointing straight up. If this was what Aicantar suspected it was, he'd be in for a real treat in a minute.

He followed along into the doorway with a bit of a spring to his step. He'd never even used one of these before. He asked, "Is this the only way in?"

The ghost on his right shook her head. He could tell it was a woman, or had been one, because she didn't have a big scruffy beard sticking out from under her helmet. Also she had a female voice. "No, we could walk the rest of the way, but it's prohibitively long. There's also a lift from the surface, with restricted access. It's for security's sake. The Dominion invaded through that lift before. It was practically undefended."

"Well, what about this one? The only thing in the way was you lot. … No offense." Aicantar stepped onto the platform. The ghosts passed him by and took up positions on either side of the lever.

The male ghost shook his head. "Trust me. If you'd come in this tunnel intending to attack the city below, you wouldn't have made it twenty paces."

Then he leaned down, and gave the lever a pull.

First, a pair of barred doors swung shut behind them. Then, all around them, there was a groaning, grinding hiss, of heavy steam-powered machinery coming to life. Then the floor dropped out from beneath Aicantar's feet. For a moment, he was weightless. And then he was watching the floor of the corridor outside rise up to the ceiling, until their little room was surrounded by nothing but steadily rising rock faces.

A little bit of time went by in silence. The ghosts were just standing there. Aicantar definitely hadn't expected that this would be his introduction to Alftand. After a minute or so, he asked them, "What's going to happen next?"

The female ghost replied, "We'll take you to the administrative section and have you registered as a citizen of Blackreach Hold. There will be some paperwork, to start. I think essentially some questions for you to answer, and a scan to record your life-image. I'm not sure if you'll need to fill anything out yourself. I presume you are able to read and write."

Aicantar snorted.

The ghost paid him no mind. "From there, your exact future depends on who you are and what you can do. No matter what, you'll have food, clean water, shelter, medicine, secure storage space, and hot showers any time of the day. Everyone gets all of that, free of charge."

"… Wait, really?" The Altmer narrowed his eyes. This sounded completely like a scam. He knew these when he heard them. "Who even pays for all of that?"

"The Jarl, where payment is required. Strictly speaking, no one is required to work, while they live here. But most everyone wants to."

This still sounded a bit like a scam. That said, the lift was still going down. If he'd had second thoughts about all this, he should have had them back in Solitude. Aicantar had to remind himself that he'd been personally recommended to come here by Kamian and Legate Rikke. And the Black Machine had saved his life. … And they'd gotten a dragon to fly him here. That was a lot of effort to go to for playing a confidence trick on a court wizard's nephew.

He didn't even know what to say to these ghosts anymore, so he just waited for the lift to finish its run. Sure enough, it soon began to slow down again—his knees buckled as the floor pressed up against his weight—and a few seconds later, a barred metal double door rose up into view. When they stopped, both the inner and outer doors opened on their own. He could hear the noise of Dwemer machinery running in the distance. The last time he'd heard that was in Understone Keep. This place felt like home already.

As he stepped out through the doors, Aicantar was greeted by a rush of warm air. Slightly humid, but oh so deliciously warm. He spent a second just sighing happily and rubbing his hands together. The room he was in was fairly spacious and well-lit, one of those two-layered rooms with a balcony ringing some of it overhead. On the right was a stairway to the balcony, and all over the walls were a whole lot more doors.

There were a few people passing through—a couple Nords, a Khajiit, a Dunmer—all wearing assorted light clothing. The one Dunmer's clothing was made of some fancy gold-trimmed dark fabric, which was interesting. And there were a few guards, living ones this time, standing on watch. They were wearing light armor, a lot like most hold guards, except their faces were visible. And their shields were made of Dwemer metal, decorated with a jagged, four-armed symbol he didn't recognize. Interesting.

Not many of the people here were paying him a whole lot of attention. One of the guards waved pleasantly. Fair enough, he was just another newcomer right now.

The ghosts led him through one of the lower-level doors straight ahead, and through some short but winding passages to another, smaller room. This one had a whole grid of Dwemer metal drawers against the back wall, and a few people on the left and right sitting at stone desks, working on various papers and such. Aicantar had had no idea that the bureaucracy here was so well-developed.

One of the workers, an older fellow, obviously an Imperial, looked up at them. His desk was decently well-furnished. There was an odd-looking Dwemer metal tablet, completely blank, over on the side of it. "New arrival?"

The female ghost nodded. "Can you set him up?"

"Certainly. Thank you." And with that, the ghosts turned and left. Aicantar was now on his own. The Imperial gestured to a wooden chair in front of his desk. What were they even doing with wooden furniture down here? "Sit down, please."

Aicantar sat down very tentatively, then scooted his chair up to the desk's edge. "So, um…"

The Imperial immediately reached beneath the desk, pulled out a piece of paper and slapped it down in front of himself. It already had a whole lot of things written on it, complete with blank spaces. He then proceeded to ask Aicantar a barrage of questions about who he was, where he was from, what race he was, what was his favorite color, what did he have for breakfast, stuff like that. It went on for a while. Quite the list, really.

Eventually, when it was done, the Imperial leaned back and pointed to the Dwemer metal tablet. "Place your hand on that," he said, "and we'll be finished."

"What… does this do?" But Aicantar was already reaching out for it as he asked. He laid his palm flat on the metal surface, and was promptly treated to what felt like a shock spell but less painful. "Aaaah! What did this just do?!"

"Recorded your life-signs," the Imperial replied, obviously uncaring as to how weird that just felt. "That way, if we ever need to determine that you're you, we have something to do it by. It's a more recent addition."

Aicantar rubbed his hands together ruefully. "I'll say. I've never seen this before. Uh… Now what?"

"Now, you'll be assigned a living space. Take this…" The Imperial reached under his desk again, and handed over what seemed to be a finger-sized Dwemer metal cylinder. It was hot to the touch, and had the numbers '1409' engraved on the side. "This is your personal key, hold onto it. You'll now be taken to your living space."

Aicantar wondered if the 1409 meant that he was the one thousand, four hundred and ninth resident of Alftand. That was a respectable enough number, he thought.

"With me, please," said a voice right behind him. He jumped out of his seat so hard, he almost hit his face on the desk.

It was a Breton lady. Definitely a Breton. Just a nice, unassuming-looking young lady, with the same light clothes as everyone else, and short black hair and pale skin and seriously had she just scared Aicantar that badly? She smiled apologetically. "Sorry. I'm told I am rather quiet. Are you all right to follow me?"

Aicantar took a deep breath, and nodded. He tucked his personal key into his robes while he was still thinking about it. They were starting to feel a bit heavy and stifling, even with the hood down. It made sense why everyone here was dressing so lightly. "Sure," he nodded. "I'll just… follow you."

He wasn't even going to bother to try and make sense of this in the meantime. The Breton lady led him out of the room the same way he'd come in.

"It's a pleasure to have you with us, Aicantar," she said. "Mages are hard to come by in Skyrim."

"How—how do you know my name?"

The Breton laughed out loud. "I was _in the same room_ as you just now. You told it to Venius. … The Imperial fellow. Runs our census and records. He's completely peerless with managing these lists, I tell you."

"Big surprise," Aicantar muttered.

"My name is Sarelle," she added, evidently ignoring the Altmer's remark. "I've been here since before the Dominion attacked. Survived that, survived the Reach… hopefully my good luck will rub off on everyone else around here too."

They returned to the central room, with the balcony. The doors to the lift were closed now. Sarelle led him up the staircase. He had little choice but to follow, of course.

But Aicantar's mind was stuck a bit behind. "Did you just say you survived the Reach?"

"Yes," Sarelle sighed wearily. "I've heard the stories about what's happened to it. You're from Markarth, I take it you've seen how it is now?"

"There's not much left to see," Aicantar said. He wasn't sure this Breton would appreciate much more detail than that.

It didn't seem to really faze her, at least. "Sounds about right. I used to live in one of the Forsworn camps. I was going to become a hagraven—stop, I know you're giving me a look, stop it." She didn't even turn around to see. She'd just known. "And if you're wondering, no, I don't normally share my life story. This is only because you're from Markarth. You know what I fled from."

Aicantar nodded, slowly. They were at the top of the staircase now, heading for the back wall. There were quite a few doorways along it. "Good choice, I think. You'd be much less pretty as a hagraven. Let alone a dead and burnt one."

"Thank you," Sarelle said flatly. "Actually, I'm curious—how did you get out of Markarth? The Thalmor have had that place for months."

"Not anymore. The Black Machine stormed the place, and, uh… handed it off to the Legion. So."

"Of course." She totally grumbled it, too. Not even close to a happy sound. "The Legion. You know, we spent years _fighting_ them."

"Yes, I do." Aicantar completely knew about the relations between the Forsworn and the Empire. At least, he knew about them on a distant, abstract level. Doubly so because the Forsworn, as a faction, didn't exist anymore. But it was interesting seeing another person from the Reach here. For some reason, it hadn't really occurred to him that he'd find any. But rather than try and explain all that, he just stuck with the 'yes I do' part.

Sarelle pushed open one of the doors, and on the other side was—big surprise—another corridor. A very long and surprisingly wide one, going in a straight line. It had a whole bunch of large double doors branching off, on both sides. They all had these numbered plaques on the walls above them. It was interesting. Plus, there were a bunch of pipes running along the ceiling, with junctions and vents and things like that, which would've made for some great study if Aicantar had actually cared right then.

"We try to put families in the same room," the Breton said, "but since you're here by yourself, you'll be with a few random roommates, more or less—"

Suddenly, one of the doors ahead flew open, and a kid ran out into the hallway, giggling at something. Looked like a Nord boy, maybe. He turned and bolted in Aicantar's direction, and was immediately followed out by a couple of… Aicantar needed a second to tell what he was looking at. A couple of small-looking Khajiit. Khajiit children? He'd never seen them before. They looked strangely cute.

"Hey!" Sarelle raised her arms. "Hey! No running in the living space!"

"Sorry! We'll go outside." The Nord boy slowed down to a very brisk walking pace, and edged past the two adults on the way out. "Sorry," he muttered again, and then immediately went back to a run the moment he was outside. The two Khajiit followed suit.

Aicantar stared. He was a little speechless.

"They're not supposed to run in these side corridors," Sarelle said, by way of explanation. "Whenever they do, they end up running straight into someone."

The Altmer cleared his throat and nodded. "Better for them to, uh… run around in the _main_ corridors, then?"

Someone closed the door ahead from inside. One of the children's parents, maybe. It suddenly occurred to him, as he saw that, just how bizarre it was that he was seeing children playing in a Dwemer city. First of all, because Dwemer cities were notorious death traps and even seasoned adventurers had a hard time in them. Second of all, because he was fairly certain that the Dwemer themselves had been completely incapable of playing or having fun in any way whatsoever.

As they resumed walking, Sarelle replied, "Well, it's not perfect, but it's better than making them do it outdoors. You've seen it out there. We, ah… We don't get to see the sky very often in Alftand."

"Hm." Aicantar nodded. "It sounds so idyllic here, though. Free food, water, shelter—"

Sarelle just laughed. "Oh, you say that now, but you haven't seen the food."

The Altmer smiled a little. "Uh-oh."

"Well, think about it. The Dwemer were self-sufficient, weren't they? They didn't rely on food from the surface. So what we've found in Alftand are these machines that run on… water and alchemy, pretty much. People have been calling them hydro farms, which I think gives them a bit much credit. The point is, you're going to eat a lot of underground water-grown bean-things around here."

"I thought the Dwemer just ate mushrooms… and… I dunno, drank the tears of Falmer children." He shrugged. "Which one of these is mine?"

It occurred to him that if the Dwemer had wanted to drink Falmer tears, they wouldn't have turned the Falmer into a race of eyeless creatures. That probably wasn't worth commenting on.

"Uh… This one." Sarelle pointed at a door coming up on their left, towards the end of the corridor, numbered 22 on its plaque. She proceeded to push it open, only to reveal… yet another corridor. Aicantar wasn't sure what he'd expected.

This one was a bit less spacious, and had five doors on each side, ten total, sized more like actual doors for a house. Again with the numbered plaques, too. There was a large, eleventh double door at the end of the corridor, with no plaque. The machine noise was still going on, but this smaller space was sort of nice. It made the place start to feel less like an ancient ruin and more like someone's home. Even Understone Keep had had trouble with that one.

Sarelle pointed at the last door. "Water utilities are at the end of the hall. You might like to freshen up in the showers."

"I heard about that earlier," Aicantar nodded. "From the… uh… ghosts."

The Breton continued walking on ahead, but she sounded like she was smiling. "We have a whole array of scented soaps to use. One of our newer residents enjoys making those. Somehow, I don't think the Dwemer experimented with those much."

"So, which of _these_ is mine?"

"Your room is 226. Here." It was the third, center door on the right. Sarelle gave it an up-and-down gesture as she walked up to it, but she didn't walk in. She simply stood aside. "After you."

"I'm 1409, I'm in hall 22, room 6. You fellows really like numbers, don't you?" Aicantar smiled and shook his head. He supposed it went with all the lists everywhere.

The room inside was decently spacious, as these went. It wasn't cramped, maybe. The ceiling was pretty high, which helped with that feeling. There were four beds, two on each wall, with padded bedding and pillows on stone platforms. At the foot of each bed, there was a decently large stone-and-metal chests, which presumably was what Aicantar's new numbered key was for. And there were some more of those pipes running across the ceiling and walls, with some vents and valves on them for good measure.

There was also a ghost sitting on one of the beds. Just some man in the ethereal version of leather armor, except he was a ghost. He was just… sitting there.

And there was a Dunmer boy—or Aicantar thought it was a boy, at least—was hanging from one of the ceiling pipes. Upside-down, by his legs, and doing something metallic-sounding with one of the valves. He had the usual light clothing on, and the shirt had bunched up around his chest, exposing a very slender gray lower back. And he was wearing a belt with a bunch of Dwemer metal tools hanging from it, except the tools had all flipped over and were laying against his bare sides. … While a ghost was sitting nearby and watching. Aicantar had this feeling like he was seeing something he wasn't supposed to.

Sarelle walked in and put her hands on her hips. She looked very peeved. "Rem, what are you doing in here?"

"Fixing things," the Dunmer said without looking. All right, that was a girl's voice. This was a girl Dunmer. That was surprising, for how short her hair was. Maybe that was just a thing with Dunmer, he didn't know.

Sarelle seemed to think that this scenario was pretty ordinary around here. Maybe it actually was. "Rem, please. We have a resident here now."

"Hi," Aicantar said.

"I'm almost done." The Dunmer, Rem, still didn't look. She was just clinking away with her tools.

"And who are you?" Aicantar looked at the ghost, who was just smiling back at him. "I thought all the ghost guards were up on the surface."

"Oh, I'm not one of the guards, lad, I'm just watching over our little Rem here." The ghost spoke with a provincial but sort of oddly smooth Nordic accent. He grinned cheekily at the two of them. "It's rather boring up in Sovngarde, for my tastes."

Aicantar flapped his arms helplessly. "Is… is this normal? Sarelle, help me. Is this normal?"

"Mostly," the Breton said warily. "Rem's one of our best mechanics, the ghost came with the package. Rem, what are you doing up there?"

In response, the Dunmer grabbed onto the pipe above her with her hands, flipped the rest of herself down off of it, and landed upright with both arms out. It was all one fluid motion. From the front, she was much more obviously a girl. She was just very small, and her hair was just very short and messy. "Oh, uh… Hello," she said, hesitantly, at the sight of Aicantar. "Who are you, then?"

Aicantar said his name, then continued, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Rem. So what _were_ you doing? Is it even safe for you to work on a pressure valve in that clothing?"

"I might've gotten scalded a couple times," Rem shrugged. "It's a hot water pipe, for the showers, I think. The valve had stuck closed. Most of this machinery hasn't been used in… y'know, thousands of years, so some of the more finicky stuff is having some teething problems coming back on."

The Altmer raised his eyebrows. "You certainly know your Dwemer machinery. How long have you been working here?"

"Six weeks."

That barely even surprised him. He swore, his expectations were crumbling away more and more by the second. "Uh…"

"I have a lot of experience fiddling with little mechanical bits," the little Dunmer smiled innocently.

Sarelle waved it off. "All right, good work, Rem, now away with you, the room's occupied now. Go on."

"All right, nyeh-eh." Rem stuck her tongue out at the Breton as she walked by. "C'mon, let's go."

For a second, Aicantar didn't know whom she was talking to, until the ghost got up and followed her out. That really shouldn't have surprised him either. The ghost even closed the door behind them.

Once they were gone, Sarelle said, "Aaanyway, your personal key should work on the chest for the… near-left bed, I think. Feel free to put your things away."

Rather than bother with that right then, Aicantar shrugged off his pack and let it land softly on the bedding. "Since when do Dwemer beds have such good padding, anyway?"

"Since people besides Dwemer started sleeping in them."

Padded beds, warm air, hot running water, plentiful (if possibly bland) food, nice interesting neighbors—Aicantar wasn't seeing much of a downside. He shook his head slowly, staring off into space, then focused on Sarelle.

"Why aren't more people living here?"

In response, the Breton folded her arms, looked right at him, and said all in one go: "Because it's less than a year old, it's far away from any of Skyrim's really major cities or trade routes, it's completely underground, the fact that it's a Dwemer city means that no one knows what to expect from it, and there _were_ more people living here—eight thousand or so—until nearly all of them died when an elven army broke in, and now people are afraid it'll happen again. It's not helping matters that any couriers or visitors are greeted by an army of ghosts. We're lucky not to have accusations of necromancy coming our way."

… Good enough, then. Aicantar put a finger to his chin. "Markarth used to be a Dwemer city, though."

"Markarth was occupied by the Thalmor until the Black Machine stormed the place. You told me that yourself."

Aicantar shrugged pleasantly. "Maybe some people from there will move here. I bet they'd like it."

Sarelle raised her eyebrows and glanced aside in a classic look of 'maybe'. "Time will tell. You're certainly the first. I'm not planning on repeating the hagraven story for all of them."

"You still look so much better than a hagraven."

That made her just roll her eyes. "If you're going to flatter a woman, could you at least try not using such faint praise?"

"You're right, sorry," Aicantar grinned sheepishly. "I'll try again later."

"Sure, take your time. I'm not in a hurry." The Breton gave him a wry smile and headed over to the door. She opened it halfway, then stopped. "You know, it's past dinnertime, but if you're hungry you could probably get some food all the same. No promises as to its flavor."

"Honestly, I'm exhausted, I had to ride a dragon all day to get here. I was thinking I'd just go to bed and… start again in the morning. I take it I'm not done being shown around Alftand."

Sarelle grinned. She must've overheard him mentioning the dragon thing back during the chat with the Imperial fellow. "No, not even close. A mage like yourself will want to see a lot of it, I'm sure. I'll have more work to do, but we can get someone to show you around. Just try not to wander alone and get lost."

"Oh, what do you take me for?" Aicantar made an indignant pout. "One of those clueless head-in-the-books wizard-scholars who deliberately get hopelessly deep in Dwemer ruins in their free time?"

"Mmmm…" Sarelle made the 'maybe' look again.

"Thank you, Sarelle," he said firmly, but with a big grin on his face. "See you tomorrow, I hope."

The Breton gave him a last little wave on the way out. Then she closed the door, and Aicantar was alone in here. The only sound was the ever-present noise of the machinery running.

After a moment of dazed silence, he sat down heavily on the bedside and laid his head in his hands. He was in Alftand right now. That thought was still a little hard to grasp. Around this time yesterday, he'd been just walking into Solitude, and marveling at how different it was from everything he'd known. Now where was he?

All the way on the far end of Skyrim from Markarth, that was for sure. He wondered how his uncle was doing. Probably hadn't noticed he was gone yet. It didn't really matter at this point.

Fortunately, unlike how things had been back there, no one in Alftand seemed to mind—or even care—that he was an Altmer. No one had so much as addressed him by race. Or made a point of describing race anywhere. He'd just watched Sarelle, a Breton and obvious former Forsworn, earnestly describing a Dunmer and obvious former thief as one of the city's best mechanics. And for all her resentment of the Empire, she—and, evidently, anyone who had an actual say in the matter—didn't seem to mind that Imperial man from before managing their ever-so-vital paperwork.

But above all, the thing today that struck Aicantar the most was those children who'd run past him in the corridor. It was something he'd never, ever thought he'd see. Nord and Khajiit children, playing together in the safety of a city. This was literally the only place in Skyrim where that was possible. He couldn't stop thinking about how much that simple fact meant.

He was going to have to get out of these robes, and shower off, and a bunch of other things like that. Even after all this time spent learning how Alftand worked, he still didn't know enough to go about a full daily routine. But that just meant he expected a very fun morning coming up.

Whoever was running this city really deserved more credit than they were getting. Aicantar couldn't have asked for a better place to be.


	21. Zaryth 4

Middas, 6:45 AM, 20th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Tower of Mzark

There was just too little time in the day. Zaryth had so many wondrous things to do with herself, and the hours ticked on.

Fortunately, in Blackreach, she turned out to have not only ample supplies with which to conduct her research, but ample assistance as well. When she'd completed enough of her studies—complete with some truly (and literally) groundbreaking discoveries—to have a solid proposal for the Jarl, she'd immediately been supplied with an entire work team to serve her various needs. And they had certainly performed well enough. The prototypes had been successful. All she had to do now was to move them into location.

Beside her were two very large things—one, a wooden chest, and the other, the Ebony Warrior. The latter leaned over and gave the floor-mounted lever a firm push. The lift's doors swung closed, and they began their final ascent to the surface.

The Dunmer found herself much more interested in the lift cabin than in the gigantic man beside her, which was little surprise. Even Thorald's armor had been difficult to stomach. While Kamian's was much more elaborate, it still hid his face entirely, and encased his form in the sharp contours of hardened metal. This enclosed chamber, shooting upward through the earth at a speed akin to a drop from a cliff, was much safer and more pleasant to examine.

But her respite wouldn't last forever. Eventually, Kamian broke the silence, or rather, broke the constant noise of the lift's running mechanisms. "I've never actually been in any of the cities of Skyrim," he said. "Not even Alftand. You'll have to tell me what it's like."

Zaryth replied absentmindedly, "Oh, it's nothing too remarkable. Certainly, the artifacts in Alftand are worth studying, or at least the ones that weren't looted already, but Blackreach is filled with far greater opportunity. Though I suppose in both cases, the automatons have all been removed. It's terribly unfortunate, they would have made for such fascinating study. From what pieces I've been able to reassemble within the Silent City, they follow the general design principles shared by automatons elsewhere in Skyrim, but the differences often encountered between designs of differing cities have been far more challenging to identify—and, in all honesty, not my priority at this time. Perhaps later on, I may be able to reassemble an entire automaton to a functional state, or better yet, locate one that hasn't yet been destroyed beyond usability. That would be most fortunate."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kamian folding his arms. He said, "What would you want to do with them? I presume you have something in mind. You know, to make them worth the danger."

"Are you truly so unaware of the utility of the automatons?" The Dunmer sniffed indignantly. "The spiders alone are responsible for operating, repairing and maintaining everything else that needs their support in the cities. In fact, it's thanks to them that the automatons in any given city will always seemingly mysteriously return to functionality within months to years of anyone destroying them."

Kamian was unfazed. He was still very difficult to look at. "Yeah, but I wanted to know what you wanted to do with them. You have a better idea of their limits than anyone else. Right now, we have all the workers we need down here to support the Black Machine, so anything you come up with is just going to be extra. If you haven't thought about that at all, you might want to start."

This man obviously wasn't inclined for scholarly study. Zaryth didn't know why she was bothering to talk to him. She could probably still find more interesting things inside this lift cabin. After all, it was her first time riding it to the surface. The Tower of Mzark consisted of two separate lifts—one from Blackreach to halfway up, and the other from halfway up to the surface—and between them was a space containing the Mzark oculory. Between her many priorities of late, she had gone up to study the oculory a fair few times (how could she not have, it was utterly magnificent), but never had she taken the second lift up to ground level. She had dressed warmly for the occasion.

Besides, there was little better to do at the moment than study what she could. Thorald's duties had taken him away from Blackreach some days ago. Zaryth didn't know what to do with him anyway. The outcome of that one conversation of theirs was continually bothering her. He didn't even know what made him happy? How was that possible? Zaryth's typical approach to problem-solving failed her on this matter.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Kamian resuming speaking. "I have to admit, Dwemer ruins aren't exactly my specialty. I've always been a lot happier in Nordic ruins. They're basically why I came up to Skyrim to start with. I had a whole pile of books about them, back when I lived in Cyrodiil."

"Well, I didn't write any of those," Zaryth muttered.

"The ancient Nords weren't as precocious as the Dwemer for engineering, not by a long shot. But they were absolutely architectural geniuses in their own right. Plus, they sort of have their own version of the spiders, theirs are just called draugr."

The lift was beginning to slow down. They'd be on the surface soon. Zaryth realized that she hadn't gone aboveground since her entry to Alftand, not even for the matter of the stars. She'd been far too busy for all of that.

In any case, she braced herself for the cold. From what she'd heard, the Tower of Mzark let out at a notably high altitude and latitude both. Perhaps it would make for an interesting view of Skyrim, at least. Definitely a cold one.

Sure enough, when the lift stopped, it was in front of a landscape covered in snow. The cold air began to filter in through the grated doors even before they had time to open. Kamian effortlessly picked up the wooden chest and carried it outside. Zaryth gritted her teeth and followed him out. She hadn't missed Skyrim's frozen outdoors in the slightest.

The lift opened onto a small mountainside plateau, overlooking an expanse of snowy evergreen forest. It was early morning, and the sun was only beginning to emerge over the horizon beyond. And, of course, it was very, very cold. Zaryth could see her own breath. But wasn't very taken by all of that. She was busy looking upward.

There were twenty or so stars visible in the sky, seemingly at random. Even with the sky lit up with the colorful shades of sunrise, they were shining all the same, far more brightly than any star deserved to. Zaryth scratched her chin. "That's new," she murmured.

"If you'd come up here to look at them any earlier, you'd know it's not," Kamian said, before setting the chest back down. There was a good deal of rope wrapped around it in both directions, with an additional, very slack loop sitting on top. Supposedly, that one loop would be able to support several times the chest's current weight, which was certainly good.

Then, before Zaryth could reply, he looked up at the sky and shouted, " _Nos-qo-riik!_ "

The words came with a massive, thundering blast. They practically were the thunder themselves. Zaryth staggered backwards and put her hands over her ears reflexively. She'd never witnessed a Thu'um in use before. It was quite extraordinary, albeit completely abrupt and startling.

Once she was upright again, she said sullenly, "You could've warned me."

"Sorry. " Kamian proceeded to sit down on a nearby rock and clasp his hands together, like this wasn't a big deal and he hadn't called a dragon just now. Even when he was seated, he was simply lowered to roughly Zaryth's own height. The man was utterly huge. "Seriously, I'm not trying to scare you or anything right now. You're aware of that, right?"

"Would've fooled me," Zaryth replied before she could remind herself not to. She immediately had to hold back a grimace. Now she'd done it. No one needed this from her.

"Is it the size? I know that kinda gets some people." Kamian sighed. A visible plume of mist ran out through his visor. "It's why I don't visit cities. I can't blend in. I really hate having so much attention on me."

There wasn't much point in hiding it, she supposed. This wasn't going to get any easier on her anytime soon. She said, "No. It's not the size. It's just the armor. I'm seriously confused how you all manage to go around and not terrify _everyone_ with that on."

"Oh. Uh…" In response, Kamian reached up and pulled off his helmet. Beneath was the head of a particularly dark-skinned Redguard. His features looked fairly average for his race, besides the skin tone, and his hair was very uninterestingly close-cropped. If it weren't for everything else about him, it would have come off as quite normal. He looked at Zaryth with a curious raise of the eyebrows. "Is that better, at least?"

"Quite a bit." She nodded immediately. Now that it was off, she could actually bear to look at the man, for once. "The helmet is the worst. I'm just… I'm going to be completely honest right now. All of you don't even look like people with those on. You just look like… It's not… uh…"

Kamian was already nodding as well. "I get it. I mean, really. I know in my case I just sort of thought it looked good, but the Black Machine is _supposed_ to look terrifying. Not in a repulsive horror-face way, just a… not really living-person way. People are vulnerable. The enemy knows how to fight people. But we'd rather they see the Black Machine as just a force of existence. How can you fight something that's not even a person like you, right?"

Zaryth just raised her hands in Kamian's direction, then let them fall again. He'd said it all, really. It wasn't like she needed to add anything.

"That's… supposed to be how the enemy sees it, at least," the Redguard continued. "But Skyrim's pretty used to being hit with terrifying things. First the Thalmor during the Great War, then the dragons, now the Thalmor again. I think my brother wanted to give everyone the chance to feel like one of the big terrors is actually on their side for once."

Having a force of terror on her on side. That was… quite a thought. Zaryth shook her head. "You're definitely better without the helmet."

Kamian nodded again. "I'll keep it in mind. I… can't really guarantee that every Black Gear will take off their helmet when they talk to you. Do you know why it bothers you so much?"

The very first thing Zaryth thought of was a very old memory. It came completely out of nowhere. She had a recollection of the golden-masked Temple Ordinators, back in Morrowind. Two of them, confronting her. But as soon as she thought of it, she shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut for a second. That wasn't what she wanted to think about right now. She couldn't even remember exactly how that incident had ended. "Eeegh. I think this is a bit of a… bit of a first, for me."

"I know what you mean," Kamian said flatly. That was a bit of a surprise. Zaryth focused on him. He took a breath in, and kept talking. "I don't really like to talk about this kind of thing either. But I hope you…" Suddenly, he blinked hard, and his face twitched in some kind of unpleasant reaction. Zaryth realized that there was a tear running down his cheek. What? This was extremely confusing. He looked surprised at himself, too. "Oh, shit. Wow, all right. I guess you shouldn't need to feel alone right now."

Zaryth opened her mouth silently. All she could think was that this whole place was strange. Really, that was what she thought, in response to this moment. The people of Blackreach didn't resemble the people she'd ever known. How were they all so ready to share so much about who they were?

The Redguard wiped his face with the back of his gauntlet, and sniffed again. Then, just as suddenly as his first display of emotion, he chuckled. "All right, that was a bad idea. I… I was honestly worried there for a second that my hand was going to freeze to my face."

"I hope that dragon shows up soon," Zaryth muttered under her breath.

"Ahhhh." Kamian leaned back and smiled reassuringly. "It'll happen. He's probably over in, I dunno, Whiterun Hold or something. Probably talking philosophy with the big guys. You'll like him, I bet." He didn't seem interested in elaborating on who these so-called 'big guys' were. Perhaps it was best not to ask. Everything felt strange at the moment.

He continued, "By the way, not to go on too much about that topic just now, but basically everyone in Blackreach has gone through something or other like this. A lot of them were at the receiving end of the Thalmor. Can you imagine what it's like to get to _be_ the scary ones for once? Just… Just think of the Black Machine as them taking the reins for themselves. I've talked to them. The reason they all wear the armor so much is because they're proud of it. They all want to do something good with that power, now that it's theirs."

That was… thought-provoking, to say the least. Zaryth narrowed her eyes. "All of them? That's quite definitive."

"Well, we had over eight thousand people in Alftand, and a lot of them were Stormcloak veterans. But only a hundred and fifty made it into the Black Machine. We're very selective about who actually gets down here. It's a community."

"If you say so," Zaryth shrugged. She wasn't sure how much of this she could really handle at the moment. It was quite a lot to think through. Oddly, she found herself rather missing the inside of the lift cabin. Or perhaps it wasn't all that odd. It'd been far simpler and more comfortable to examine.

Kamian rested his chin on his knuckles for a few seconds, then frowned. "That being said, not everyone is probably as nice as me. Good and nice are two different things."

They remained silent for a little while. The sun was coming up, as it did, and as the sky lightened, those twenty errant stars above were finally beginning to fade. Those were really quite mysterious. Zaryth had seen the sky every year for more than two centuries, and this was the first time the stars had ever behaved particularly unusually.

That said, the 'stars' on the ceiling of Blackreach were still more fun to sit back and look at.

Zaryth heard the dragon before she saw it. The sound carried seemingly through the whole sky around her, distant and directionless. It was the unmistakable sound of a gigantic beast's roar. She took a deep breath in. This would be her first time seeing such a creature. The only thing she knew to expect was its general shape and size.

Not five seconds later, a dark, winged silhouette swooped in from above the mountaintop behind her, shooting overhead at a seemingly impossible speed. Its body was shining, almost glittering in the morning sunlight, even from beneath. Even from here, with nothing to compare it to in the sky, Zaryth could tell that this dragon was absolutely huge, and yet it was shooting through the air with all the speed and energy of a bolt of lightning. She felt her jaw drop.

The dragon didn't simply turn around and descend to the tower's level. It carried on a distance ahead, then dove downwards, twisted midair, and resumed flying straight back at the mountain. And Zaryth thought that would be the end of it, but then it veered upwards sharply, and took itself upside-down—actually _upside-down—_ in a complete vertical loop, before eventually approaching once again. When it reached them, it slowed to such an abrupt halt that the gust of wind nearly knocked her over.

"Greetings, Kamian," the dragon said, and Zaryth couldn't help but be awed by how huge its voice sounded. It was a strange adjective to apply to a voice, but this one's sound could never have come from a mortal mouth. "It brings me pleasure to see you here once more."

"You too," the Redguard replied brightly. At some point, he'd donned his helmet once again. Zaryth hadn't even noticed. "I have a special request for you. Come down here and let's talk."

Obligingly, the dragon circled around and landed—surprisingly gently—on the mountainside just next to them. It looked even bigger up close. Its scales were a lustrous, vivid combination of silver and blue, which made it look more like a living work of art than an ancient being of flesh and blood. On some level, it was probably more like an ancient being of embodied Time, if that made any sense.

Zaryth found herself strangely devoid of fear. This wasn't really a person like usual, or even a particular threat. It was just another magical wonder. One that had just performed some unbelievable aerial acrobatics, which had her extremely excited. But she simply smiled and waved politely. "Hello," she said. "My name is Zaryth Velani. What's yours?"

The dragon answered, "I am Nosqoriik. I have answered the call of the Ebony Warrior. To what end have I been called, this day?"

"Nosqoriik, please, don't be sour." Kamian sounded quite jocular about it. It was a little surprising how little emphasis he was placing on reverence, or at least solemnity. It didn't feel, by Zaryth's first impression, like the children of Akatosh were there to be joked around with. "This is important. If you help, and it works, you won't need to keep carrying people around places all the time."

Nosqoriik was very much straight to the point. "What do you require of me?"

"I need you to carry this mage around places. Oh, and carry this box, too." Kamian pointed at the chest. "Just one place, to start, all right?"

The dragon actually sighed. He let out a long, rumbling breath through his nose, and sank his posture somewhat. "Where first, Kamian?"

"Solitude. There's a castle in the middle of the city, as I understand it. You can just drop her and the box off in the courtyard."

Zaryth couldn't help herself. She knew this was an important exchange of instructions and so on, and these two obviously had some casual rapport established between them, but this was her first time with a dragon. They were so close together that if she took a couple paces, she could have touched the creature's nose. She couldn't contain her words anymore. They came out with a huge grin on her face. "This is really exciting. I had no idea that dragons could fly like that! That was incredible."

"Most cannot," Nosqoriik replied instantly. "In fact, many others of my kind have spoken ill of me for showing my talent with my wings too often. For myself, I simply… enjoy the experience of flying."

"Understandably!" Zaryth laughed out loud as she spoke. This really was incredible. She was having a conversation with a dragon. A real, live dragon, right in front of her. Not in a thousand years would she have expected this to be possible at all, let alone under such friendly circumstances.

"Oh, yeah, Nosqoriik, don't take her upside-down, all right?" Kamian posed it like a completely mundane reminder. He turned to Zaryth afterwards. "He took me upside-down once. It wasn't my happiest day."

"I can make no promises," Nosqoriik said, completely deadpan.

Zaryth laughed even more. "Are you sure, Kamian? I might like to try going upside-down now."

"Really?" Kamian folded his arms. "I thought you'd just want to interrogate him for all his ancient knowledge."

"Oh, by Azura, that is an amazing idea!" The Dunmer turned back to Nosqoriik, completely beaming at this realization. "You must have been alive during the Merethic Era, right? That's by definition before the recorded years of history, it's before the First Era. You must have so much knowledge of ancient Nord society, not to mention the history of the dragons at the time! We could go through it all together or—if you prefer, you could just dictate to me, and I'd write in an entire book for you, right on the spot. It'd be a revolutionary publication, I can't believe nobody has thought of doing this already. It'll be fantastic!"

Nosqoriik seemed to take it in stride. He made a low, closed-mouthed noise, seemingly of contemplation. "My knowledge would fill ten of your books, mage. Or a hundred, perhaps. It is difficult to say. But we would be busy for a great length of time."

Zaryth shrugged. "Well, that's not a problem. You're immortal, right? You're not short on time yourself."

The dragon snorted indignantly. "All of you mortals keep saying that!"

"It's still funny," Kamian commented.

"Your wise words are deeply appreciated, Kamian." Nosqoriik had an amazingly earnest and even tone of voice. It was actually a little hard to tell how much he was joking, because of it.

"Yeah, yeah, good. That's good. Why don't you guys get mounted up, and, uh… I'll help you pick up this box?"

"Before we proceed, Kamian, I feel I must impress upon you that you are using the talents of one of the children of Akatosh to carry a box."

Kamian was unfazed. "If you knew what was in the box, you wouldn't mind. Zaryth, why don't you get up on him?"

"All… right, then." Honestly, Zaryth didn't know how she was meant to do this. She'd never ridden a dragon before. She walked up past Nosqoriik's massive head and neck, and looked at his even more massive torso.

"Just hop up on there," Kamian said. "Right where you are. Above the wings."

Nosqoriik helpfully lowered himself all the way to the ground as the Dunmer came up close. It was still quite difficult for her to reach all the way up to climb on. In fact, she couldn't find purchase at all. It took very little time for her to realize that she was too short to get on.

Over to her left, the dragon's voice said, "Do you require additional aid?"

"Oh, for Talos' sake," Kamian's voice said, quite audibly. He started coming over at a brisk striding pace.

It completely came by surprise what he did next. He walked right up to Zaryth's side, and then the next thing she knew, a huge, metal-clad pair of hands had closed around her waist and hoisted her into the air. She grabbed reflexively for the dragon's spines the instant she was close enough, and clambered on the rest of the way, turning around as quickly as possible to give the armored man an intensely reproachful glare.

Kamian simply folded his arms again. "Oh, don't give me that look. You had to get on there somehow."

Before Zaryth could reply, the dragon beneath her started walking forward. She very nearly fell off again, only barely managing to grab onto the spines in front of her. They were surprisingly easy to straddle, though. Most of her weight was on her legs, by virtue of the sheer width of the dragon's neck and shoulders. She could get used to this, maybe. She imagined she'd certainly need to soon.

Ahead of her, Kamian was walking out and heading over to the chest, where he'd left it on the snowy ground. He grabbed onto the free loop of rope on top, and held it up taut, creating a triangle between the chest's edges and his hand.

Nosqoriik seemed to get the idea, because the next thing he did was to take flight, ascending into the air with a single, massive beat of his wings. Zaryth found it oddly reminiscent to the sensation of a Dwemer lift beginning to ascend, besides that this was in the middle of the air and far less stable. She held tightly onto the spines. It would be very embarrassing to fall off right now.

In any case, Nosqoriik immediately proceeded to fly forwards, beating his wings continuously the whole while, and Zaryth felt him dip slightly in the air as he grabbed onto the rope with his feet. And then they were off, and the mountainside fell away beneath them.

Zaryth looked over her shoulder at the sight of the Tower of Mzark, perched on the snowy slope, all by itself. She could see Kamian waving after her, and she daringly spared a hand to wave back, until his silhouette had shrunk too much for her to see, and it was just herself and Nosqoriik up in the sky.

For the time being, there was little to do besides enjoy the view. Nosqoriik wasn't talking, and Zaryth doubted there would be much point in trying to speak. The dragon was flying so quickly, the wind blowing over Zaryth was so strong, that it was making her have to strain just to hold on. The noise around her was a constant, roaring gale. Even if she'd tried to talk, she doubted she would've been able to hear her own voice.

But the view, she had to admit, was simply spectacular. It wasn't only that it was a high vantage point of the countryside of Skyrim—she'd climbed her share of mountains in her time, and plenty had afforded similar sights. It was that the vantage point was rapidly moving. As they passed by the mountainside and began to fly over the wetlands of Hjaalmarch, Zaryth was able to observe natural features and landmarks passing by below, visible from shifting angles with her changing perspective. It felt as though she could pass by entire mountains with a few seconds of walking. Views like this often impressed upon her the vastness of Skyrim, but at the moment, everything felt quite small.

The arch of Solitude was visible even before the Karth River below and around it. It was a mere promontory at first, a narrow lip hanging off the hillsides beyond the swamp. As they approached, it became clear that the promontory was hollowed out beneath, and a river was snaking through the gap. Soon, they would cross this river, just as easily as the land before it.

Zaryth wondered how many strange wonders and dangerous encounters she had avoided by riding Nosqoriik to her destination. Certainly, she had been saved upwards of a week of travel.

The last time she had seen Solitude, it had been towards the beginning of the Fourth Era. Apparently, since then, it had become Skyrim's capital, what with Winterhold mostly falling into the sea, and Nords being unaccustomed to living underwater. But as the minutes passed and Nosqoriik brought her closer, the Dunmer couldn't discern much particularly different about the city now from before. The Blue Palace was as it had been before, certainly, and all of the buildings looked as dark and austere as ever.

This seemed to be the case for most cities in Skyrim, however—or, perhaps, most cities in Tamriel. With the exception of the newly-emerged Blackreach Hold, every city in Skyrim had existed continually for centuries at least. Zaryth wasn't entirely sure which exact city was the oldest—probably either Windhelm or Markarth, the uncertainty being because Nord history didn't include Dwemer city-building in its timeline, and vice versa—but it would have been for entire millennia in either case. It would be unreasonable to expect Solitude's appearance to change dramatically after only a couple hundred years.

Nosqoriik tilted gently to the right as he flew, banking to correct his course towards the city's central castle. Zaryth tightened her grip on the dragon's scales. Despite the howling wind around her this entire time, she had started to become quite relaxed. It had been a few hours, and now the sun was bright and high overhead. It occurred to her that she was rather hungry. Had she broken her fast yet today? She thought she had. It was terribly difficult to keep track of such unwanted distractions.

Unlike his arrival at the Tower of Mzark, Nosqoriik slowed down over Solitude at a careful, gradual rate—in good part, Zaryth suspected, because of the cargo he still carried beneath. The Blue Palace passed directly beneath them, and then the myriad houses of the great arch of Solitude, and then, eventually, the foreboding black stone gates of Castle Dour. Already, the noise of the city below was growing audible, the incessant clamor of hundreds of people going about their business. She could see individual figures walking through the streets, though they were impossible to identify. Some seemed to be stopping to watch them pass by. Perhaps they were curious about the cargo.

Still, all the while, Nosqoriik's flight grew slower, his wings beating more and more frequently as the airflow over them lessened. By the time they were over the castle's courtyard, the dragon had come to a graceful hovering stop, and then their descent began.

There were a few legionnaires standing on watch below. Zaryth could identify their uniforms even from up here. As she descended beneath the height of Castle Dour's walls, some of them moved aside to make room for what was coming. Nosqoriik shifted to the side gently, and deposited the wooden chest on the ground below—Zaryth couldn't hear it land, Nosqoriik obviously hadn't let go until it had touched the ground—and then he wheeled around in place and landed himself.

Zaryth was unabashedly eager to jump off of the dragon's back and stand on solid ground again. Here she was, all the way in Solitude, when she'd started this morning in the mountains of southeastern Hjaalmarch. Her legs were feeling a little stiff, and she relished the chance to give them a stretch. Likewise, her fingers ached badly from so much time spent holding on tight.

She sighed. It mattered little, as concerns went. But as a spellcaster, she did tend to feel somewhat anxious around the matter of looking after her hands and their digits. One couldn't cast spells if one's hands weren't working. As if to make sure, she briefly dual-cast a healing spell upon herself, which did helpfully serve to alleviate some of the ache.

The courtyard was a fairly spacious enclosure, with two open gates to the city outside, and a prominent doorway nearby to the castle interior. Two legionnaires were standing on guard by the doorway, and one of them stepped up to address her. Or, no, not her—to address the dragon. The dragon was evidently more interesting.

The legionnaire quite brusquely asked, "What's the meaning of this, dragon?"

Nosqoriik was, as usual, unfazed. "I have brought a mage from Blackreach, and her devices. My instruction is to wait until her work is complete, and bring her back when the time comes."

"I wasn't notified about this," the legionnaire said. He was a Nord, by the looks of it, with the sort of thick, heavy build that suggested a lifetime of hard work. To Zaryth's surprise, he immediately turned and addressed her. "You, there. Mage. What's your business in Castle Dour?"

Zaryth took a deep breath in. She hadn't quite rehearsed an explanation for her presence here, but it wasn't that difficult. She knew whom she was supposed to be talking to. "My name is Zaryth Velani," she said, noting that the legionnaire hadn't bothered to even ask for either of their names. Woe to him. If his superiors had asked about this incident later, he would be missing critical information from the outset. "I'm here on behalf of the interests of Blackreach, with the delivery of an artifact for General Tullius' eyes only. I would appreciate your help in bringing it inside."

The legionnaire looked at her for a moment, then at the dragon beside her. And then at her again. "… So be it. Wait here, mage. I'll go find the General."

And with that, he immediately disappeared into the doorway, thereby ending the conversation.

He'd just called her 'mage' again. Had he seriously forgotten Zaryth's name within twenty seconds of her saying it? That was its own kind of impressive.

The Dunmer supposed she couldn't be too surprised. She wasn't in Blackreach anymore, she was in Solitude. People here just didn't get it. Maybe some of them were intelligent sorts, but she wasn't counting on a sympathetic audience. The masses of Skyrim's general population were unpredictable and unforgiving. She could save her optimism for when she returned to her workspace.

It was less than a minute before the doors opened again. Out strode an unmistakable figure of high Imperial authority. An older man, obviously from Cyrodiil, wearing tastefully gilded steel armor, thankfully helmetless. He stopped to take a brief look at the new arrivals in the courtyard, then nodded to himself and continued walking closer.

Then the legionnaire from before slunk out after him, with a thoroughly embarrassed look on his face. He resumed his post beside the doorway and just looked at the ground quietly. Good for him.

The Imperial man stopped within conversation range of Zaryth, and nodded respectfully to her. "Zaryth," he said, and then nodded to the dragon beside her. "Nosqoriik." How did he know that name? "I am General Tullius. I've been expecting both of you."

"That's more than I can say for your subordinate over there," Zaryth said, without a hint of mirth. She didn't really know what to expect from these people.

"Well, he didn't know. In fact, nobody besides myself did, for security reasons. But I understand what this device is for, and I imagine you'd like to get this over with just as much as I would." The Imperial looked back through the open doors. "Take it inside!"

With that, four more legionnaires came out through the open doorway, and headed over to the chest. It was far from easy for them to lift, even with all four of them carrying the weight, but they made quick work of bringing it back in with them.

This all made sense, it seemed. Zaryth reminded herself that this General Tullius _was_ the person she'd been sent here to meet, which meant that Kamian—or someone else high up in Blackreach's chain of command—trusted him with the secrecy of this project.

"Feel free to come in," Tullius said, before following his legionnaires back inside.

Zaryth gave Nosqoriik an acknowledging nod before heading on in as well. She'd never been inside Castle Dour before. Besides her general knowledge of Nordic architecture, she had little idea of what to expect.

What she found was a dark, stern-looking interior, all dark stone masonry from floor to ceiling, which could have been quite sinister were it not brightly sunlit through the windows. The ceiling was pleasantly high, there were some banners hanging from the walls—it all felt quite normal, as castles went. She'd entered into a sort of spacious antechamber, with a doorway straight ahead, and another to the right. Tullius was walking on through the former, so Zaryth followed accordingly.

The legionnaires set the wooden chest down in the middle of the room beyond. Already, they were unfastening the ropes around it, preparing to begin work on the contents inside. This was another spacious room, with yet more exits to other areas, and a large map-bearing table prominently featured at the far end.

"We'll be putting this out in the open," General Tullius said. "At least, for whatever counts as in the open, within the castle. It'll be easier this way to keep an eye on it."

He said the words 'keep an eye on it' like they were meant as a sort of sardonic jest, but the sentiment was obviously serious enough. The logic certainly seemed sound. If the device in this chest were kept in seclusion, it would be easier for someone to sabotage it unnoticed. And it was worth watching over, as well—there likely wasn't a single more valuable thing in all of Castle Dour, perhaps all of Solitude.

The only reason this had worked was because of Zaryth's latest ground-breaking discovery. Before that, her experimentation had been fruitless. The premise was as followed: Back on Vvardenfell, there had been a network of ancient Dunmer teleportation devices—a chain of permanent links between two locations, essentially, connecting ten locations in a continuous ring—known as propylon chambers. They had run on what could be loosely referred to as the magic school of mysticism. Unfortunately, most practitioners of magic in Skyrim had left this school behind—but fortunately, Zaryth had not.

However, once again unfortunately, while she still possessed the knowledge to create these devices, she had lacked the resources. It took more than mere knowledge to make the propylon chambers work.

The magic of mysticism, while unparalleled in effectiveness, was notoriously unstable and dangerous, which was why it had been abandoned by most mages. The propylon chambers themselves were little more than freestanding stone obelisks, each imbued with a magical connection to another such obelisk elsewhere in Mundus. But on their own, they had an alarming tendency to transport their users… incorrectly. The solution had come in the form of lots of crystal deposits in the obelisks' vicinity. Zaryth knew relatively little about the crystals' composition, or even their origin, besides that they tended to stabilize any magical effects taking place nearby. The Dunmer mages of old had used them very liberally, and very effectively.

And they had all been lost during the Red Year. Vvardenfell had been essentially wiped clean off the world map, and the ten linked strongholds had been erased in kind. There were no more samples to study. Zaryth had considered it lost knowledge.

At least, that was what she _had_ considered it. Recently, she had had the brilliant fortune to come upon another material with a similarly stabilizing effect.

The legionnaires had finally finished undoing all the ropes, and now they opened the lid of the chest. Much of it was filled with bundled straw, to serve as simple padding, but the cargo—principally, the device that had been so painstakingly transported from Blackreach to Solitude—was plainly visible at first glance. It was a solid column, just over four feet in length and roughly ten inches in width. Both ends were made of Dwemer metal. On the left end was a thick, sturdy tripod base, currently folded in a parallel position. On the right end was a plain, equilateral triangular pyramid, whose base was circumscribed by a circular cap of metal atop the column, and whose visible faces each had the word 'BLACKREACH' engraved on them in block text. And between the two ends was the body of the column, which consisted of a plain, perfectly smooth cylinder of vivid, glossy blue stone, iridescent with purple undertones and glittering brilliant cyan under the light—a material also known as Aetherium ore.

There were deposits of this material all over the place in Blackreach. Zaryth's work team had been able to procure the cylinder for her within two days of her asking for it.

It was terribly ironic, she thought. The Dwemer had gone to such tremendous lengths to refine the ore they had found in Blackreach, wanting to find some way to harness the power of Aetherium despite how resolutely inert it was. Now, thousands of years later, she was completely ignoring all of their work on the matter, and using the Aetherium for the exact thing the Dwemer had fought so hard to overcome.

The legionnaires seemed to know what to do, but Zaryth verbally directed them anyway. Slowly, carefully, the four of them lifted the column out of its padding, and brought it over to an unoccupied corner of the room, where they set it upright. They took some time to make sure it was positioned just right, which was good of them. There wouldn't be much chance to undo their choice later. The feet of the tripod, rather than simply spreading out to form a wider base, used an additional piece of cargo from the chest—a dynamo-powered gear attachment—to drill themselves straight into the floor, held permanently in place with ridges of threading interlocked with the stone.

That was one way to keep people from knocking it over, Zaryth supposed. She hadn't even designed that part of it. General Tullius looked mildly displeased at the fact that his castle was getting holes drilled in it. That was a fair reaction, she thought.

In any case, once the tripod was secure and the dynamo was back in the chest, the legionnaires closed the container's lid and started wrapping it up in its rope once again. They could have finished here, strictly speaking. But while they were at work, the Dunmer decided that she wanted to give her device a little test.

There was one more thing that was required to make the propylon chambers work. Not just anyone could pass through. For a user to get any effect from a given obelisk, they would need a corresponding propylon index—essentially, a small token that focused the obelisk's magic on the current user in particular. Zaryth had one stowed in her belt pouch at that very moment.

She wordlessly took the index out and gave it a look over. This was her first time viewing it in sunlight. It was an oblong, tapered cylinder of Dwemer metal, engraved with the same sort of text as the pyramid faces. But in the cylinder's case, one side read 'BLACKREACH'—and the opposite side read 'SOLITUDE'.

Holding the index in her left hand, she walked over and laid her right hand atop the pyramid.

For a split second, her whole field of vision was consumed in an aura of spiraling waves of brilliant cold white light. And then she was standing in a distinctly Dwemer room.

It was a spacious chamber. Perfectly square, with a high ceiling, and an empty floor. The air was very warm and humid, more than Zaryth had remembered, even with her heavier clothing in mind. In any case, directly ahead of her was a pair of double doors. She walked up to them, pulled them open, and poked her head outside.

The streets of the Silent City looked just about how she remembered them. At this time of day, everyone was having their luncheon, and she could hear the distant noises of the people all talking and moving around. The air smelled very familiar out here. Warm, and soft, and living. It made her feel like… like she was someplace she was very used to. It made her smile a little.

Then she closed the doors again, and headed back over to the Aetherium ore column. It was directly opposite the doors, just a few feet away from the wall, and it looked mostly like the one in Castle Dour, except that the pyramid on top was engraved with the word 'SOLITUDE'. This room really was nicely spaced for these columns, Zaryth thought. She imagined there could be three on the left, three in the back and three on the right. Currently, they were one out of nine.

When she touched her hand to the pyramid this time, the same aura engulfed her, and she was back in Castle Dour. She looked around slowly. Everyone was looking at her with some mix of expectation and surprise, Tullius most of all.

After a moment, she smiled at them. "Well, it works."


	22. Ria 4

Turdas, 4:49 PM, 21st of Second Seed, 4E 202

High Hrothgar

"Hey, I just realized. What do they even _eat?_ "

"Uh…" Ria scratched her head. "What?"

"The Greybeards must need some kind of food, right? They are humans."

It was cold up here. And by 'it was cold', Ria meant she couldn't feel her face. Since leaving North Skybound Watch, she and Erik had been journeying up the Seven Thousand Steps for three days. She was pretty sure that the number of steps was far, far bigger than that.

Supposedly, by this point, they'd have an amazing view of Skyrim, or at least of Whiterun Hold. They _were_ getting around to the northwest part of the mountain, and Erik had been so good with educating her about where all the holds started and ended on it. But unfortunately, they were in a snowstorm. The sky was clouded over, it was snowing everywhere, wind was blowing in a constant gale across the path, and Ria couldn't see fifty yards ahead of herself.

And she couldn't feel her face. So, pretty cold, basically.

She wanted to think that this was still better than dealing with that wispmother, but that felt like tempting fate. It'd probably result in the snowstorm turning out to herald the arrival of some kind of mythical snow-dragon monster from the Merethic Era or something.

Erik's voice was barely audible over the wind, and the two of them were walking right next to each other. "I'm just saying! They probably have some nice hot venison stew waiting for us right now."

"Erik," Ria said flatly.

"It's gonna be so good. We'll come in and tell them how honorable we are, and they'll help us get a dragon because they like us so much! Just like Farengar wanted."

"Erik, please."

"Wait, wait I'm not done, it gets better! Once we're inside, we'll tell the dragon about the wispmother we fought, and he'll teach us how to breathe fire! To… help with more wispmothers!"

"Erik, you're going to be all right, I promise."

"Gods, the Greybeards don't even like warriors, do they?" Erik made a pained noise.

And Ria thought she was supposed to be the one who couldn't handle the cold. But—all right, that was unfair. This trek had been taking a whole lot out of both of them. It was hard to imagine how people did this on any kind of regular basis.

Actually, the answer probably was that they didn't. The Greybeards were known for being reclusive, but they weren't known for being unkind or anything. It was probably more that no one ever had any reason to go _this_ far out of their way to visit them.

For her own part, Ria had just kept putting one foot in front of the other all day, and hiding in her little tent all night, for as long as they'd needed. She'd never made camp on a mountainside before, and it was terrifying. Partly because if this kept up much longer, she was going to start losing fingers and toes to frostbite.

"So, I had a thought," Erik said. "You know how Farengar can do fire spells?"

Ria groaned aloud. But she did kind of appreciate Erik keeping talking like this. He'd been doing it this whole time, and he somehow hadn't run out of things to say. Having a distraction from the sensations in her body right now was more welcome than ever.

"What if—bear with me on this Ria, bear with me, hold on—what if, instead of a campfire, we just had him use some fire spells on us? It's not like it could heat us up enough to burn us, at this point. It'd be great!"

"Erik, that's, uhhh… hold on a second. Look." Ria pointed ahead with her arm—not with her finger, though, because her hands were both balled up in fists inside her gloves. There was a wide, dark silhouette ahead on the road. It looked like a wall, with some kind of spire on top.

Both of them broke into a run at the same time.

Ria's lungs started to burn after five paces. Her legs felt like they were made of solid lead, her body felt like it was encased in solid ice. She didn't care. She had to get out of this snow if it was the last thing she did.

The silhouette sharpened quickly, and emerged into view. It was a stone brick wall, with twin curved staircases splitting around the spire—which turned out to be actually a tower—going up to two separate front doors. This was the front of a castle, or a fort. No, a monastery. High Hrothgar.

Had she actually just forgotten for a second that this was High Hrothgar? There was literally nothing else it could be. She really had to get inside.

The stairs were the worst of all. It wasn't fair. She'd climbed so high already—in terms of sheer altitude, equivalent to the entire Seven Thousand Steps—and now she had to climb these extra stairs just so she could finally get in from the cold. And Ria didn't just have to carry her own weight. She had her armor, and her gear, and her supplies, and all the frost and snow that'd caked up on everything. Every single step up this last staircase made her body tremble and lurch. But she kept going, as quick as she could.

As she jammed her hands down on the door handles and put her momentum straight into pushing through, it occurred to her that she didn't really care about what was on the other side. All that mattered was that it probably wasn't freezing cold in there. She still couldn't feel her face. That had been bothering her for a while.

She fell on her hands and knees, and promptly rolled onto her side. Her vision was a blur. Everything was gray and dark and gloomy. The doors clanged shut behind her, and she thought she could see Erik's snow-dusted form leaning heavily against them. It was silent in here, except for an unpleasant, ringing hissing noise in her ears. She realized that that was coming from inside her own head.

Footsteps were approaching. One person's footsteps. Ria was panting hard, trembling from head to toe. All she could get herself to do was to roll onto her back, and look up, upside-down, at the person approaching.

She blinked a couple times, hard. Her vision sharpened enough for her to see a man walking up to her, wearing an elegant dark gray hooded robe. The man actually did have a literal gray beard. How about that.

The man stopped right in in front of her, and put his hands on his hips. He spoke in a wise, articulate tone, roughened with age. "Well, now. Who has honored us with their presence in High Hrothgar today?"

Ria let out a long sigh, and twitched her mouth in a smile. She could almost sort of feel her face again. That was nice.

Behind her, or below her in this position, Erik's voice said, "Erik, and Ria, of the Companions of Whiterun." His voice coughed. "I'm sorry. It's really, really cold out there."

"Never before have those under Ysgramor's ancient banner entered these halls. But this is a time of many firsts." The Greybeard didn't seem very fazed. "I am Master Arngeir. When you have recovered from your journey, we may speak to one another."

That seemed fair. Ria wondered if this Arngeir already knew what they were here to talk about. She wouldn't put it past them.

A couple minutes later, she and Erik had gotten out of their snow-covered furs, and were sitting beside a low table, eating some very plain bread and drinking some very plain ale. Looked like the Greybeards needed food after all. That, or they just had this here for guests.

According to common legend, Jorrvaskr was the oldest building in Whiterun, having stood even before the beginning of the First Era. But one wouldn't necessarily think it, to look at the place. Jorrvaskr was mainly made of wood, and every single plank had been removed and replaced countless times over throughout history. It was still the same shape as when it'd first been built, but it wasn't the same building anymore. It felt decently new, like any mead hall.

That wasn't the case in High Hrothgar. This place felt like living myth. Everything was made of cool, rough gray stone, and the floor tiles were cracked in a hundred tiny places from millennia of wear and tear. There were a few mysterious stone sculptures and dragon-language hanging banners around this place, but mostly it was just empty and plain and very quiet. It all gave a feeling like this place was just motionless, always.

It was great to be here. Ria could already tell that this moment alone was going to make for a stupendous story when she got back to Whiterun. This job was their chance to get back into the flow of things, Farengar had said. Sure, it was the flow of things. If the flow of things was to venture far off the beaten path, and explore the wonders and legends of Skyrim.

Which it was. It just typically involved a lot more sword-swinging than this.

They'd come in by way of a spacious main chamber, which it turned out that both the left and right front doors led to. But right now, they were off to the side, in a long, crooked hallway, with lots of simple wooden furniture. And they were eating some very simple adequate food. Ria was fine with it all. She was still warming up anyway.

Eventually, when Erik had finished his bread, he said, "So, uh… Arngeir. If it's all right with you, I'm just going to skip to why we're here. You've been watching what's been happening with the stars, right?"

Arngeir focused on him immediately, and nodded in response. "Our calling is that of the sky. To see it so disturbed is far more than a peculiarity. Each night, a different selection of stars is lit with a flare of brilliance unheard of in all known history. We mortals may not have the wisdom and insight to comprehend what we are seeing."

Ria really wanted to do the talking for this one. She swallowed her mouthful of bread and replied, "Well, it's not just that the stars are being bright. They're stuck in place."

"I… am not entirely certain what you mean." Arngeir narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Or just inquisitively. He was hard to read.

But evidently, the Greybeards weren't as good as Farengar at watching the stars. It wasn't exactly fair to expect of them, Ria supposed. She shrugged casually. "Ever since this started, on the 9th of Second Seed, the sunrise and sunset have been at the exact same time of day. We're not moving off the sign of the Shadow."

This seemed to really throw Arngeir for a loop. He opened his mouth silently, then simply shook his head and sighed. It was another couple seconds before he actually said anything. "Ever since the Dragonborn's emergence, many… unexpected events have taken place. While you are untrained in the Way of the Voice, I would offer you the same advice as any initiate—to approach this, as all things, with caution and foresight. But I freely admit that this is a matter beyond the reaches of my knowledge. I regret to disappoint you."

At least he was polite about it. Ria smiled. "I didn't come here to ask you about it."

"No?" Now he was even more visibly puzzled. It was actually sort of fun making one of the legendary Greybeards struggle to keep up. "What may we offer you, then, that brought you to our monastery?"

Ria's smile widened. "We'd like to speak to a dragon about it. You can summon one of those, right?"

It was great, watching the realization dawn on Arngeir's face. He sat back in his chair and stroked his fingers gently down the sides of his beard in a time-honored gesture of contemplation. Eventually, he said, "Perhaps. One dragon did grant us the knowledge of his name, seemingly for this very purpose. But one question remains to be asked. You are Companions—warriors, in essence. What would compel you to seek answers to such a divine mystery?"

"Oh, it's not for us," Erik cut in. "We were hired. The court wizard of Whiterun discovered the issue with the sunrise and sunset, and wanted answers."

Arngeir stared blankly at him for a long, long few seconds.

Erik cleared his throat.

"So in summary," the Greybeard said, "this court wizard asked you to ask us to ask a dragon for their knowledge of the stars."

Ria nodded brightly. "Yep! That's exactly it."

Arngeir ran a hand over his face wearily. "By all tenets of the Way of the Voice, I should refuse you. It is not our way to use the power of the Thu'um, or what you would call shouts, for purposes other than our meditation on the Voice and veneration of the gods. But the dragon in question did insist upon giving us the Words of Power that compose his name. I suspect that this may be a moment of true need."

"So… What you're saying is, you're not doing it for us, you're doing it for him," Erik said.

"I will not pass my own judgment upon your task," Arngeir replied, rising to his feet as he did. "That, I will leave to the dragon. Follow me."

Erik got up and followed him immediately. As he passed by, Ria quickly finished the rest of her bread and ale, meaning she stuffed the entire rest of the bread in her mouth and then soaked it in ale so she could chew and swallow it. She got up and threw her fur outerwear back on as she trailed behind.

Another one of the Greybeards was walking sedately through the main room, just as the two Companions entered it. He ignored them, which was fine. Arngeir was already opening one of the back doors, because there were, in fact, back doors here, immediately opposite the front ones. Which made a sudden kind of sense, as Ria thought about it. The wall-like design of High Hrothgar made a complete barrier across the path up the Throat of the World. There was no feasible way to get to the peak without coming through this monastery first. Or just flying.

It was still snowing outside, but Arngeir paid it no mind. He walked out onto a wide, short porch, and then descended onto a flat, open space beyond. A courtyard, it looked like, ending with a big arch over where the path resumed up the mountain ahead. There was a lone tower standing by the arch, probably shorter and smaller than the Western Watchtower, but not by a lot. It must've made for an amazing vantage point, in better conditions.

Ria could see that much even with it snowing this hard. At least, she could, once she'd followed him and Erik outside. She really didn't like walking back out into the cold, but it didn't really matter. This was what she'd come here for. No sense in waiting any longer first.

Arngeir stood still and composed himself in the middle of the courtyard, seemingly oblivious—or completely uncaring—of the snowy gale whipping around him. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn't even going to do anything. And then he shouted. The words came in an inhuman magnitude, punctuated with an ear-splitting blast of thunder that reverberated out off the mountainside.

It was three words long, yet one word as well. Ria had heard it before.

" _Od-ah-viing!_ "

Then it was time to wait.

Some amount of time passed. It was hard to keep track, out here. Minutes, maybe. The snow was just blowing and building up as always. Ria shrank back against the doors she'd just come out through, and hid her face behind her hood. Exposing it to the cold air was not a fun prospect. She had no idea how Arngeir was standing out here so peacefully. Wasn't he cold too?

All of a sudden, a clap of thunder rolled through the air. An instant later, the clouds simply faded from the sky, and the courtyard was filled with bright evening sunlight. Ria could actually see the sun now. The sky was perfectly clear and blue. The snow stopped falling to the ground a moment later.

Then, before Ria had time to even think about what she'd just seen, a massive _shape_ appeared in her field of vision. Or not a shape. A creature. And it didn't appear, it actually flew. It flew straight ahead over the rooftop of High Hrothgar, dangerously low to the ground, sending a gust through the air and sweeping up the snow on the ground beneath as it passed. It made a tight, 180-degree turn inside the courtyard, and as it did, Ria got a perfectly clear look at it.

It was amazing, how quickly this creature moved, for how gigantic it was. Were dragons male? Could she call Odahviing a he? She probably could. In any case, he was gigantic. As he turned around, he banked hard against the air, and his wings spread nearly as high up and down as the tower nearby. His whole scaled body looked to be a bright, fiery red against the blue sky, but when he came around, Ria realized that that was just his upper half. The lower half was a warm, steely gray. All of it was still completely huge.

She'd never actually seen a dragon before. She'd heard about this one, how he'd been trapped in Dragonsreach shortly before Alduin's defeat, and how at some point he'd changed sides and thrown in with the Dragonborn. Apparently, he'd even lent the Companions his aid before. But Ria had never seen him, or any other of his kind. It was magnificent.

When the dragon landed on the courtyard, he did so with enough force that it sent a great big wave of wind and snow outward in all directions. Ria put her arms over her face until it was settled. Then, when she looked again, the dragon was just sitting there, waiting expectantly for something to happen. Arngeir was standing nearby, watching silently. And Erik was hanging by right next to her, staring wide-eyed at what had just landed before them.

Looked like it was all up to Ria now. Ria, the Imperial whelp in the Companions' hall. It was hard to imagine how she'd gotten where she was, but this was no time to think about that. This was the time to act. She walked closer, hesitantly.

As she did, she realized that with the snowstorm gone, she could see out over the edge of the courtyard. And that got her to just stop. A whole great swathe of Skyrim was laid out down there, as though she were looking at an incredibly lifelike map. She thought she could see Whiterun, but it was little more than a speck from up here. Jorrvaskr, Dragonsreach, all of the districts, her whole life and livelihood, all of it was just a little dot on the plains, small enough for her to fit it between her gloved thumb and forefinger.

"Greetings." The sound made Ria practically jump out of her skin. That was the dragon talking. That was Odahviing. He'd just spoken aloud. His voice was incredibly deep and strong. It sounded like something much greater than any mortal voice.

She looked at the dragon—or his snout, anyway, that was the closest thing to her right now—and stammered a response. "H-uh, all right, h-hello, I'm…" She swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut for a second. This was not the time for her to mess up. When she tried again, her voice was at least a little more level. "Hello, Odahviing. My name is Ria. This is my Shield-Brother, Erik." She pointed behind herself at the man in question. "We're Companions of Whiterun. We wanted to talk to you."

Arngeir turned and walked right past her, towards the doors back inside. He seemed to get that he wasn't supposed to be part of this conversation. That, or he thought it was way too cold out here, which he'd be absolutely right about. If it weren't for the dragon out here, Ria would've followed him inside in a heartbeat.

"Companions. Yes. Ysgramor's warriors." Odahviing's head dipped in a sort of dragon-like nod. "An unlikely group to seek the counsel of the dragons." He paused. "You look very cold."

"We are extremely cold," Ria said immediately. Why did Odahviing even care? Not that she was going to question him out loud. "We have been cold for some time, thank you. It's fine. Let's just get this done."

"If you have any wood, I have been known to be able to light fires from time to time," Odahviing said.

Behind her, Erik burst out laughing. All right. She smiled a little. "No, sorry. We're all out. Listen, we're here about the stars. What's going on?"

"Ah, yes. In a sentence: The Dragonborn destroyed most of the planes of Oblivion, the energy of Aetherius is pouring nearly unchecked into Mundus, and an unknown entity has frozen the movement of the stars. Was that all you required?"

Ria sighed. All right, so the Dragonborn was still out doing crazy impossible things. She might've been inclined to just drop it, but Farengar _had_ asked her to come find some answers. "How did he even do that?"

"The Dragonborn unlocked the power to make his will a reality. This is presumed to have some form of limit, as we have not all been elevated to immortal paradise, but the Daedra will no longer scourge this world."

"Oh. … Well, that's good news." Mainly, Ria was just running on politeness right now. She couldn't really think about all the different things that this actually meant. She was starting to not be able to feel her face again. "Did you say something about an unknown… thing?"

"Yes. My knowledge of this is limited, and very new. Every Daedric Prince to bring suffering upon this world has been erased from all being, but an entity now lies beyond the Dragonborn's influence, and it has transfixed the stars as they are now. Yet the stars are only a sign, a symptom of a deeper imbalance. If left unchecked, it may bring disaster upon us."

"That's a little less good," Ria said blandly. "All right. Uh. Is anyone doing anything about this yet?"

"The Dragonborn is doing all he can to stay the effects of this change, but we know too little to do more. My fellow dragons vigilantly watch the skies for new changes. Many have occurred already. It would seem that the very limits of magic have begun to unravel." Odahviing let out a low, rumbling breath. Ria hadn't known that a creature as great as this could sound so exasperated.

Behind her, Erik said, "What can we do to help?"

"A wise question." The dragon shifted his focus off of Ria, which was actually kind of a relief. "My advice is simple: Continue your search for answers. If you wish it, I will bring both of you back to your city of Whiterun directly."

Ria couldn't contain her surprise. She probably should have seen it coming, but she completely hadn't planned on this. "What, you mean fly us there?"

"I can carry two of your kind when need arises. It is not a long flight. When you return, be sure to give your colleague Aela my regards."

Oh, no. He didn't know already?

Ria looked back at her Shield-Brother, then up at Odahviing again. The dragon was staring at her, expressionless. She took a deep breath in. "I'm sorry, Odahviing. Aela, Vilkas, Farkas, Brynjolf… They're all dead."

Odahviing shuddered. That was the only way to describe it. A visible tremor ran through his body, and he recoiled away from Ria somewhat, turning his head aside. He didn't seem to be able to show much expression on that face of his, but Ria could guess what he was feeling. This was painful to watch.

Eventually, he spoke again. His massive voice had been reduced to just a whisper. "… How did it happen?"

"We think it was one of your dragons," Ria said. It was the truth, she had to say it. "They were coming back to Whiterun, on the day that you were all fighting each other over the city. They never made it back."

Odahviing closed his eyes. He didn't say anything in reply.

This was strange. It was strange, and it was a shock. On one hand, it was completely, horribly clear what this dragon was going through. It reminded Ria of how she'd felt when she'd heard the news herself. There was no getting used to hearing that someone she cared about had died. It was worse than anything she'd ever felt, every time.

Except this was a dragon, not a person. Not a mortal. He was supposed to be completely fine with mortals dying all over the place. That was what Ria knew about dragons, certainly. They were immortal, they'd lived through hundreds of generations of mortal folk, and they'd never been known for being much besides merciless tyrants. Ally of the Dragonborn or no, she hadn't expected Odahviing to particularly care about this. But… of course he would, right? He'd known the Companions. Aela had even ridden on his back. They might've had all kinds of good times together. And apparently, somewhere along the way, he might've decided that it was a good idea to get attached to people.

When Odahviing opened his eyes again, he just looked drained of energy. Like he was going to just slump over on the ground right then and there. But he held upright, and turned back to Ria and said, "I knew Aela for only one day. But for that day, I saw that she was truly a good person. She leapt at the call for Brynjolf's rescue, and… she taught me very much, even if I could not understand it then. The world is poorer for her absence."

"Yes, it is," Ria murmured. It'd been so long since she'd shared the news of the Circle's demise with anyone, but it didn't hurt all that much less now. She wondered if Odahviing liked getting hugged. Was that even possible to do with a dragon? It should have been.

Maybe whatever Aela had taught him was related to why her loss was upsetting him so badly. Ria couldn't say for sure. All she'd known about Aela as a person was that she really disliked sitting around in Whiterun all the time.

A little bit of time went by. They were all just standing there. Odahviing seemed to be breathing a bit heavily. If he were a mortal person, Ria imagined, this would be the part where he'd be sniffing a lot and wiping his tears. Because this was the perfect time to be shedding those.

Eventually, Erik walked up to the side of Odahviing's head, and put his arms around it, as best he could. Ended up pretty much just hugging the upper couple of horn-spike-things, whatever those were, coming off the back. Odahviing stayed put. He didn't even really react, besides lowering his chin to the ground so Erik wouldn't have to reach far.

Ria didn't like standing here doing nothing, so she went over to the dragon's other side and put her arms on him the same way. Odahviing's scales were cool to the touch, not nearly as biting cold as the other things out here. Since no one could really see, Ria put her face against them, and held there for a while. Before long, she could actually feel the scales' texture on her cheek.

"Thank you," Odahviing said, after a while of this. Ria had sort of lost track of time. She actually _felt_ the dragon's voice, a deep subtle reverberation in his throat and jaws. It didn't exactly startle her, but it sure got her attention. "Your mortal ways of showing your care are very strange. But I understand."

"Well… good." Ria stepped back a little. Mainly to make sure Erik was still there. She found him peering over Odahviing's nose at her.

"I think we're basically done here," Erik said. "I am sorry, though, Odahviing." He gave the dragon a glance of eye contact. "It's been hard on everyone. I wish you'd been told before now, you obviously deserve to know."

Odahviing shifted back for a moment, then took a few thudding steps forward, edging his wings in between the two Companions. "If you desire it, I will return you to Whiterun now. In the future, if I come upon more answers to our questions, I will bring those to your hall as well."

"Or if you just want company," Ria said, without really thinking about it. Sure, why not, it wasn't like his dignity was about to take a hit for it. She still kind of winced anyway.

The dragon let out a short breath. "Yes. Or that."

It was kind of awkward, climbing onto him. Particularly since Ria and Erik were climbing on from opposite sides. Erik got up much more quickly, and reached down to help Ria on. It was like mounting a horse, except massively bigger and spikier. She got on behind Erik and pretty much just held onto his waist.

"Hi, Erik," she murmured.

"Hi, Ria," he replied without looking.

Before they took off, Odahviing paused for one last little remark: "Are you ready to see the world as only a dragon can?"


	23. Gelebor 5

Fredas, 3:21 PM, 15th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Rorikstead

Gelebor was not on his way to Alftand. There had been a slight change of plans.

What had changed them were the stars. The evening after he and his companions had stopped in Dragon Bridge, once they had crossed the eponymous bridge and begun their journey south and east, the sun had set as always—and as it had, a handful of stars had made themselves visible far, far too early. Gelebor had counted twenty-three of them, which to his knowledge was no number of meaning. But it went without saying that this was terribly wrong.

It was upon seeing this that Vidrald, Teldryn and he had agreed to take a shortcut in their journey. Preferably, they would have traveled all the way to Alftand and overseen the retrieval of the Aetherium shard from Raldbthar themselves. But they no longer had such a luxury. At a time like this, when the veil of Oblivion had been pulled away from the light of Aetherius, the bizarre brightness of the stars could only mean that somewhere, for some reason, the magic of the world was flaring wildly out of control. They had to hurry.

So Vidrald had used some stationery to write a couple of letters on the road, and the moment they walked into the village of Rorikstead, he ran off to find the courier's office. Teldryn and Gelebor were promptly left standing there in the street.

"Well, this is good," Teldryn said.

"Quite," Gelebor nodded absently.

They'd had a beautiful journey through the countryside on the way here. Surely, as they ventured south, the ruin of the Reach was not even a day's travel to their right, but they had seen nothing but beautiful grassy hills and plains—Gelebor had even seen butterflies on the way here. Those had filled him with such joy.

Now the two of them stood in the second village of their journey. It seemed pleasant enough, the snow elf thought. It was roughly the same size as Dragon Bridge, perhaps a bit larger, and made of much the same sorts of buildings. Instead of being perched beside a mountainous gorge, this village was surrounded by open, grassy plains, and farmland nearer by.

A small, meandering river ran across the village's north border, and they crossed a bridge on the rough stone road as they came in. Compared to the spectacle of Dragon Bridge, it felt as remarkable as a wooden plank over a street gutter, but Gelebor reminded himself that everything he saw here was the fruit of generations of hard-working people. He could appreciate this place.

On the way here, they had passed by countless small farmhouses, surrounded by various crops. Gelebor had rather liked looking upon the wheat fields, perfect golden rows waving in the wind and so on. But they had never gone very close by. Vidrald had assured them that they would have received good hospitality, but it wasn't worth slowing down for—or betraying the sensitive nature of their mission for. The hard-working people of Skyrim had been all around them, but too far away to properly meet.

Now, as they entered Rorikstead, he and Teldryn did see a few of the people in question walking along the road. As with Dragon Bridge, no one stopped to greet them. Perhaps they looked too intimidating.

Gelebor, for his part, had taken to wearing a blue hooded robe that Teldryn had purchased in Dragon Bridge. Along with a pair of gray cotton gloves, it did a good job of concealing his skin from curious passersby. It was also loose enough to allow him to wear his original armor beneath it, and he rather liked it for that. But as he strolled into the village of Rorikstead, wearing all of this new Nordic attire, he could not help but feel like somewhat the impostor. He was dressed in the manner of someone whom he was most certainly not.

"So," Teldryn broke the silence again as they walked, "are you looking forward to trying out the grand cuisine of Rorikstead? They say that the produce here is so fresh, you may be served a meal whose ingredients were picked earlier that very same day."

"That's true of any village with a food crop nearby," Gelebor said dully.

Teldryn was undeterred. "Well, yes, but I was trying to make it sound enticing. I have to make _myself_ sound enticing, for anyone to hire me."

"Well, I hope you have something to look forward to yourself, here."

"Clean clothing, perhaps. I don't miss much of the Reach, but I do miss traveling alongside a river."

This was essentially the rapport Gelebor had had with his companions over the past five days. After having left behind the endless desolation of the Reach—and, in his companions' cases, having obtained some travel provisions that consisted of more than the equivalent of discs of compressed dirt—their collective mood had improved quite quickly. Even the ongoing crisis in the stars above had not deterred them.

It felt as though Vidrald and Teldryn both had wanted to approach this travel with a much happier attitude all along, but only now could they finally do so appropriately. For Gelebor's part, he was mainly relieved not to be in the Reach any longer.

Which, of course, he saw fit to put into words at that very moment. "I also hope your jobs have not always treated you to such horrific sights as all that ash. Erm… Possible ash yams notwithstanding."

"House Hlaalu is on the move," Teldryn said, completely deadpan.

At this point, the two of them stopped walking down the road, and headed over to rest in front of what looked like the village's inn. Perhaps they would go inside soon, but Vidrald needed to find them, so outside they remained.

Gelebor leaned his back against the wall to the left of the door, sighing in relief as some of his weight was taken off his legs, before saying, "You're very fond of House Hlaalu. Did they ever pay you some vast sum of gold for something, by chance?"

"As a matter of fact, no. My career as a mercenary has taken me into Skyrim before, but the Dunmer noble houses are not in the practice of hiring those like me. Not even the ones who can afford it, like House Hlaalu."

"Why not?" He was genuinely curious, at that. These social complexities were generally rather beyond his purview.

Teldryn leaned upon the wall by the snow elf, then folded his arms and let out a long sigh himself. "Well… House Hlaalu may hire guards to protect its members and their interests, if it comes to that. And certainly, I have done my share of personal guard duty, when wandering sorts feel the need to have a traveling companion similarly removed from any hierarchy of control. But for the purposes of most, lone mercenaries such as myself are typically only worth hiring to accomplish one specific goal. And for the Dunmer noble houses in particular, that would most likely involve my participating in some bid for power. Once, that might have been very common. But now, while they might not like to admit it, the Dunmer houses no longer have the capacity to do so."

When the explanation was over, Gelebor simply nodded and remained silent. He understood what had happened to the Dunmer. It was another item on the long list of tragedies that had befallen the people of Tamriel over the past centuries.

It occurred to him, rather abruptly, that he was likely in the middle of such a tragedy at that very moment. And that was as compelling a thought as it was rudely uninvited. As demanding as it was, the dedicated worship of Auri-El did not generally require becoming entangled in such great and woeful things. He wondered if the effects of his deeds would be remembered on the same scale as the tragedy itself. Perhaps if he and the others obtained all of their Aetherium while there was still a world for them to save.

After a moment, Teldryn continued speaking. "This current job is easily the most memorable I've ever had. If it weren't for what we saw in the Reach, I'd say it's the best, as well. You and Vidrald are splendid company. And that's saying a lot, in Vidrald's case. I never thought a Stormcloak supporter would be so happy to hire a Dunmer."

"A Stormcloak supporter," Gelebor repeated, trying to place his memory of that term. The Stormcloaks. They were another element of Skyrim's history. A recent one, as he recalled. "The rebellion, yes? Just last year?"

"That's the one. Their leader, Jarl Ulfric, did very little to help the Dunmer in his city. They had been there long before he took the throne, but he essentially left them to fend for themselves, as did the other Jarls of Windhelm before him. I truly hate saying this about people, but if I'm to be entirely blunt, I'm glad he's dead. If you looked at it in sheer terms of numbers, dozens, or possibly hundreds of impoverished Dunmer suffered early deaths because of his neglect."

"You've put a lot of thought into this," Gelebor murmured, without any hint of judgment. He appreciated when people took the plight of others into account. But he had to remind himself that there was a good reason why he had remained in Darkfall Cave for so long—or else he would be guilty of much the same crime as the late Jarl Ulfric, by virtue of not being there to make a difference throughout history.

He wondered how most people went about this issue, of reconciling the call to live one's own life with the call to improve the lives of others. His service to Auri-El had always felt more than enough. Certainly, it had been free of any active maleficence. But it had also been free of such moral complexity to begin with. Now he had plenty of room to simply wonder.

Once again, however, his thoughts were interrupted by Teldryn speaking. "I'm not sure if you're aware of this, Gelebor, but I did actually live in Windhelm for a time. I can confidently put that time among my least favorite memories. I don't suppose the Chantry of Auri-El had much in the way of abject squalor?"

Gelebor gave him a sidelong, puzzled look. It took him a moment to realize that he wasn't meant to answer the question. At that point, he wasn't entirely sure what to say, so he simply spoke his mind. "I am wondering, now. With Auri-El as my guide, I have been free to assume that all of my actions in his service have been morally right—and that seems difficult to dispute even now. But as you and Vidrald have described the myriad injustices in the world, I have wondered how _anyone_ decides what is fair for them to do. Certainly, remaining isolated in the Chantry seems too little."

"Hm?" Teldryn raised his eyebrows at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, certainly, compared to those who use religion as an excuse for arrogance and brutality, the path of enlightenment in the service of Auri-El is morally spotless. I must wonder, though—how fair is it to devote oneself entirely to living one's own life in satisfaction, when there are so many others who do not have that choice?"

Teldryn offered a hint of a smirk. "The opposite is rather impossible, you know. It could be argued that as members of Skyrim's civilization—or just as people in general—we have some sort of duty to help others as we can. But it's a dangerous path, sacrificing one's own desires for that sake. Eventually, you get into a situation where every bite of food that goes into your mouth should have gone to feed someone who was hungrier."

"You can have the food," Gelebor remarked casually.

"Yes, thank you very much. I really don't think most of the common folk of Skyrim worry themselves about this, about whether what they do will make their homeland, or Tamriel as a whole, a better place. They don't think of things in such terms."

"Is this another matter where you've given it a great deal of thought already?"

"Perhaps a bit, in Vidrald's company. Not as much before that." Teldryn smiled sheepishly. "Here's an example he gave me. In the case of the Civil War, the two sides were the Empire and the Stormcloaks. Some of the people of Skyrim fought for the Empire—and while a few liked the Empire for the benefits of its trade routes and the like, if you pressed a legionnaire for why they were right to serve the Emperor, they would cite their loyalty, and their desire to fight the Empire's enemies. The act of fighting loyally was right to do, and it was as simple as that.

"The Stormcloaks, on the other hand, rallied behind the banner of Talos worship. Their call to war was of righteous freedom. The Empire was oppressing them, and they wanted to see it put to justice. The act of defending their freedom was right to do, and it was… as simple as that. But in both of these cases, their call to fight was based on the idea that what they were doing was the righteous thing to do. Honor, essentially.

"Now enter the Dragonborn. Here was someone who cared nothing for honor. Who looked at his choices, and wondered not whether they looked righteous to do, but what they would result in. And so he went to Windhelm, all by himself, and assassinated Jarl Ulfric in cold blood. He ended the Stormcloak Rebellion with just one death, reunited Skyrim under the Empire's rule, and most importantly—prepared its people to fight the Thalmor. Neither side in the Civil War had even considered how they would handle the Thalmor once their fight was over. And if it weren't for the Dragonborn's dishonorable code of conduct, the Thalmor would have manipulated the people of Skyrim, using their own sense of honor, into all destroying each other.

"So when you're asking me about how much one should sacrifice for the good of Tamriel's future, I'm inclined to simply congratulate you. You're lucky for not having grown up in Nordic culture. You're free of the trappings of honorable conduct. I presume your service to Auri-El binds you to some manner of acting, but you're asking questions that most people around here would never have thought of. And to answer them—try not to lose too much sleep over the whole self-sacrifice thing. Just try and be fair to yourself. If everyone abandoned their dreams to go make Skyrim a better place, no one would be left to enjoy it."

Gelebor stared. "… Yes, then. A great deal of thought."

"You could say that," Teldryn said mildly.

It was remarkable, that description of the Civil War. For his own part, Gelebor could not have been much further removed from it all, but Teldryn had described a scenario of such complexity and conflicting principles that it reminded him of the nuances of spiritual debate. As it happened, he'd never had much interest in that himself, even as it was sometimes practiced in the Chantry. But Teldryn here might have actually done quite well in the same.

Which raised its own sort of question, as well: "What sort of mercenary knows so much about the nature of these things?"

"You mean about moral decision-making? One who was hired by Vidrald, obviously." The Dunmer rolled his eyes. "He hasn't spoken as much around you, but he has quite the insights. It's engaging company, if hard to follow at times."

"I can see why he hired you, if you've actually paid attention to all of that," Gelebor said.

The moment he finished his sentence, a familiar voice called to them from down the road. "We're good!"

Vidrald was coming up at a jogging pace. He slowed down to a walk just as he got within range to speak normally. "Apologies for running off," he said, offering a breathless, sheepish smile. "They, ah… Mmm. They haven't been receiving very many letters lately, so they can send a rider to Whiterun later today."

Teldryn frowned in typical emphatic fashion. "Later today? For… what, two letters? How much did you _pay_ them?"

"I don't know what's going on," Gelebor said.

Vidrald cleared his throat and blinked hard, refocusing on the snow elf. He must not have been expecting to need to explain himself. "Skyrim… all right. Skyrim has a great deal of couriers, all of them uh… operating out of the different cities. In villages like this one, any letters going outside of the hold generally have to go through the hold capital first, where they trade hands with a longer-distance courier. Just as well, seeing as I'm sending two letters to two different corners of Skyrim. For one of them, at least, it'll have to go through _that_ hold capital as well, and at that point, it's not even my own gold paying to forward it along."

"That sounds like a complicated business." Truth be told, Gelebor had only the barest idea of how the economy of Skyrim worked. The more he saw of the Fourth Era's Skyrim, the more he realized how ignorant his life in the Chantry had left him—not only of world history, but of the common way of life.

"Oh, you haven't the faintest idea." Vidrald laughed ruefully. "It's good in one way, because it allows anyone to send letters, without hiring a courier of their own. But, ah… Well, it's terribly disorganized. Nominally, the Empire is involved somehow, but in practice, every hold capital runs its own business. Across multiple holds, it can take fifty septims just to ensure that a letter will arrive within three weeks' time."

"How much did you pay just now?"

Vidrald grimaced and shook his head. "Let's… let's move on, shall we?"

Teldryn pointed helpfully to the inn door. "Like so?"

"Like so," the Nord nodded. "Someone else will need to pay. And by someone else, I mean you, Teldryn, because Auri-El doesn't provide his disciples with an annual stipend."

"If he did, you'd be one of the richest people in Skyrim, Gelebor. If only for how long it'd have built up." Teldryn grinned. None of them had even a move towards the door yet.

"No," Gelebor shook his head. "Auri-El, in his grace and timeless elegance, simply makes up for it by freeing me of the need for food, water, changes of clothes, and the myriad other things for which the people of Skyrim seem to require constant maintenance."

"I'm going inside before we forget to eat anything ourselves," Vidrald muttered, then turned and finally headed for the door.

But he didn't get to open it. Just as the reached for the handle, the door swung in, opened from the inside—and in the same split second, a person strode out through it, so quickly that they bumped right into Vidrald's chest. The two of them both stumbled back at once, and looked at each other quizzically.

The person coming out was a stoutly built Nord man, red of hair, all shaggy and bearded, wearing commoner's clothes. He looked Vidrald up and down, then squinted. When he spoke, it was in a dull grunt, more of a statement than a question. "Who're you s'posed to be."

"Just a traveler, passing through," Vidrald said mildly, before starting to sidle past the man.

But the man stopped him, with a heavy hand on his chest. "Wait. I know you."

Vidrald took a deep breath in, and a deep breath out, before looking calmly up at the man. "I'm sorry, I don't know you. I'm sure I'd remember you if I did."

The man glanced at Gelebor and Teldryn, still squinting suspiciously. Gelebor realized that the man was rather inebriated. He could smell the drink on him. "These friends of yours?"

In his time, Gelebor had dealt with more than a few unsavory individuals. Some of them, in fact, had come to him in Darkfall Cave, looking to acquire Auriel's Bow. He'd become quite accustomed to firmly sending them on their way. He was quite weary of such needless confrontations now. They were a pointless expenditure of his patience.

Vidrald, however, replied with his usual sort of gentle poise. "Ahh, well. You could say so. We're traveling together, at any rate. Just arrived in Rorikstead a minute ago. It's nice here." Somehow, he was acting not only polite, but actually rather friendly as well. That was certainly more than he could have done himself.

"Well, that's sure in'resting. 'Cause I remember where I saw you." The man curled his hand into a fist, one finger pointed out, before prodding it hard into Vidrald's chest. "You're a Stormcloak. I was too. I was in Windhelm."

"That much is true." Vidrald smiled and raised his hands apologetically. "Times have changed, haven't they?"

Gelebor's mouth opened silently. He tried to contain his reaction, but… it wasn't easy. Vidrald had been a Stormcloak. Not simply a supporter of their cause, but a member of their ranks. This certainly changed a few things.

"An' now you're going along with elves, huh? You forget your colors that quick?" The man squinted at Gelebor and Teldryn again. Gelebor had to wonder what sort of mer this individual believed he was.

Vidrald replied smoothly, "We live in strange times. I really do need to get inside, though, so if you don't mind?"

"I should bash your face in for this," the man growled.

"All right, well," Vidrald put his hands on his hips and sighed, "there are three of us and one of you. So why don't you get out of my face before I tear yours right off your stupid skull?"

For a moment, the man looked like he was really about to lash out with some kind of strike. His fists clenched, and he took in a deep, shuddering breath, glaring furiously at Vidrald—and then he glanced again at the two elves standing there with weapons hanging from their belts. After a moment, he wordlessly shoved his way past Vidrald and strode down the porch, heading off down the street without even looking back.

"I'm sure he would've made a great brother-in-arms," Vidrald muttered quietly as he righted himself. "Come on. Let's get inside, shall we?"

Teldryn held up a hand. "Wait, stop. Close that door."

Vidrald obliged him before replying. "Wondering why I admitted to being a veteran Stormcloak?"

The Dunmer folded his arms. "Well, _are_ you?"

"… Sadly, yes." That wasn't much of a surprise at this point. There would have been little reason to admit to it, were it not the truth. That drunken stranger just now would have likely accused him of keeping the wrong sort of company either way. "I try not to talk about it. I'm sure you've noticed that I was not pleased with any side in that war."

Teldryn held out his hands, shaking his head slowly, a distinctly pained look on his face. Perhaps he wasn't taking this as well as Gelebor had. "Why… didn't you tell me?"

"To be honest, I don't even like telling it to myself." Vidrald looked downward as he spoke. "I'm sorry. It's not a proud chapter in my history. The ideals of the rebellion weren't, uh… They weren't what I thought they were, when I started."

This seemed to allow Teldryn to relax somewhat. "I thought you lived in Whiterun, though. Why would you support such a cause?"

Vidrald looked up with a mirthless smirk. "You think I would've supported it if I'd lived in Windhelm? I would have seen what the Jarl was doing to your kind, then. No, I'm simply a friend to the Gray-Mane family, and they supported the rebellion, so I did as well. I decided to go join it myself, and… Is it all right if we leave this behind? I've been trying to do just that already."

"Well, I did know you supported them, but… all right." Teldryn sighed and shrugged. "So be it. Water under the bridge, and so on. Is it too late for luncheon?"

"That's more like it." Vidrald offered a more relaxed smile in kind. "… But you still have to pay."


	24. Thorald 4

Loredas, 10:10 AM, 23rd of Second Seed, 4E 202

Great Lift at Raldbthar

Sure, ten soldiers could storm an entire dwarven city. Why not?

It'd been just one day since Thorald had returned from that stupid trip to Winterhold, and Kamian was already sending him off on another assignment. Apparently, on the same day as his return, the guards in Alftand had received a letter for the Dragonborn, from some aspiring adventurer or other, asking if they could please fetch a very important magical item from Raldbthar.

It didn't sound very promising. The letter was completely out of nowhere, and its explanation for the usefulness of the item was a bit on the cryptic side. Apparently, they were looking for a piece of bright blue… stuff, which was actually refined Aetherium. Kamian seemed to think it was important. But generally speaking, it sounded like a half-baked request.

Obviously, Thorald had completely eagerly sprung into action. After Winterhold, he just wanted to do something with himself that made some kind of actual sense. This was… close enough to that, basically.

And this had led very promptly to him standing in here, in this dwarven lift cabin, with nine other people. Squads 29 and 30. He'd wanted the extra backup because dwarven cities were pretty big.

Honestly, this was actually rather exciting. He'd never gone this route before. The shuttle ride to the Raldbthar outpost had only been about twenty minutes long, as opposed to Alftand's thirty—they'd be going to the southeastern Pale, not too far west of Windhelm. It was the closest he'd gotten to that place in years.

And when they'd arrived, Thorald had found… waterfalls. A whole lot of waterfalls. The Raldbthar outpost was basically on top of an entire underground lake, which seemed to be cycling itself through the dwarven-built pumping stations. The lake was surrounded by jagged, sloping clifftops, and bridged by a whole web of stone towers connected by ramps and walkways. In addition to the usual mushrooms here and there, the lake had these gigantic, glowing fungal spires just standing in the middle of the water, rising up among the towers to sway gently in the air. All the air around here was even steamier than normal. Somehow, this outpost actually felt even more wondrous than the rest of Blackreach so far. Thorald couldn't believe he hadn't visited it yet. He really should have.

The conventional entrance to Raldbthar's lower levels was at the far end of the lake, up against the very end of the cavern walls. But that way in was blocked from the other side. The Great Lift, on the other hand, was perfectly functional. It looked a lot like the Tower of Mzark, Thorald had thought. A single, ground-to-ceiling stone tower, perched on one of the clifftops beside the lake. Since they were here on business, not pleasure, the two squads had gone straight from the shuttle terminal to the Great Lift without stopping to look around.

And now here they were. Standing in the lift cabin, waiting to get to the surface. This was the only way for them to get to Raldbthar's lower levels. They'd go all the way up, approach Raldbthar from the outside, and fight their whole way back down through the city to get the magical trinket for their mysterious new friend. It'd probably be fine.

Two squads—ten people, in other words—versus a whole dwarven city. It was sure to be fine.

He hadn't worked with Squad 30 that many times in the field, but they'd trained together plenty enough. They were as good at their job as anyone else in the Black Machine. Thorald tended to prefer to work with the last few squads on the list. Since he was 29 out of 30 himself for that, they tended to be grouped together—for living space, training exercises, any inter-squad stuff of that sort.

The squad leader, 30-1, was an Orc male, name of Galurag. The other four in the squad were named Kev, Maruna, Lafette and Tyreel. One Nord, three Bretons. Thorald knew all their names mainly because he wanted to understand when they were referring to each other. Also because it was really embarrassing to not know people's names.

To be completely honest, Thorald was definitely thinking about someone's name right now, but it wasn't someone in this cabin. And going by how his personal life had been lately, it sort of went without saying who it was. He was still hoping they could share a hug at some point under happier circumstances.

He'd seen this sort of situation unfold with other people enough times to recognize it with himself—he was starting to fall in love. That was completely where this was going. He wondered what his family in Whiterun would have thought. Maybe sometime he could go back to them, try and explain it: 'Hey, things have been going great for me in Blackreach, I'd like to show you my new lady love, she's a Telvanni mage—' That would go over beautifully, he was sure.

Unfortunately, for the single day that Thorald had been in Blackreach again, Zaryth had been out. Supposedly, she was in Whiterun herself, working on her teleportation network, which—actually, Thorald just realized that she might've already decided to stop by House Gray-Mane by herself. Just to see what all the fuss was about, or something. It was terrifyingly plausible. He should've thought of that sooner.

This was a little much to imagine. Or, at least it was a little much to imagine realistically. At the moment, his imagination was providing him with thoughts of the house completely exploding in a magical fireball somehow. Just, spontaneously. By virtue of being near Zaryth.

"You're looking dreamy again."

Echallos' voice snapped him out of his reverie. The man murmured the words right into his ear. Over the noise of the dwarven machinery, most of the people in here probably didn't even hear.

Thorald looked down at him skeptically. They had a bit of a height difference. The Breton had to crane a little to talk to him so closely. "I have a visor on, you can't tell."

As it happened, they _all_ had visors on. Echallos did too. His face was completely hidden beneath it. He chuckled audibly, but his visor remained as impassive and foreboding as ever. "Oh, I can tell. You're thinking about her."

"Is this some Reach-folk magic you're doing? Prying into people's heads?"

"No, I just know you." In fairness, that was true. Before Zaryth had come along, Echallos had been basically the only person who'd ever paid him any real attention. Even if Thorald did rather prefer females for his more sensitive companionship, his squadmate had always been nice to be around—and although he'd never admit this to anyone, it was sort of all the same with the armor on.

The two of them weren't the only ones to be chatting right then. As much as they were all just standing around, it wasn't like they were strangers. This was just going to be another day's work, except more exciting.

"Well, remember," Thorald said, "Zaryth wants at least one automaton in one piece." Which had already been repeated to them several times—by Kamian, of all people, when he'd assigned the mission. Apparently, he and Zaryth were chatting now. "So she's… sort of related to what we're doing now, right?"

Echallos folded his arms. He probably had an impudent look on underneath that visor. Just an educated guess. "How come you've never had to make stupid excuses for standing around daydreaming about _me?_ "

Thorald snorted. "Don't be jealous."

"Well, in all seriousness, I hope it works, I'd be thrilled if we got to have some automatons around that _didn't_ want to kill us." The Breton lowered his arms again. Maybe he felt like that'd been a little much. "She rather seems like she's putting on a brave front for us, doesn't she?"

"Aye, she does," Thorald sighed. That was a nice way of putting it. But it wasn't exactly far from the truth. He wondered if Zaryth was aware of how much the people around here were thinking about her. Hopefully not. She'd probably assume it meant they really disliked her.

Echallos nodded slowly. "You take good care of her, all right? I mean it. I bet she'd make you one happy man if you let her."

If only he knew how true his words were. Thorald kind of half-chuckled, but he wasn't really amused in the slightest. He hadn't forgotten that one talk he'd had with Zaryth, out at the target range. Sure. She'd make him one happy man. After that talk of theirs, he wasn't sure how he was supposed to even care.

The lift was slowing down now. Everyone stopped talking, and silently drew their weapons. In Decarro and Kev's cases, that meant picking their crossbows up off the ground. Those things were too heavy and cumbersome for everyone to bring, especially for a close-quarters attack mission like this, so they were just taking one per squad.

Deccaro said, "Oh, hey. Did you fellows hear that story about the Thalmor soldier who was chasing some Talos worshippers up to Solitude?"

Thorald groaned under his breath. Decarro sure liked talking.

"He was pursuing them through Hjaalmarch, in the swamps, but he tripped on a rock and hit his head. And when he woke up, he was so confused and backwards that he couldn't even remember which side he was on."

The lift finally came to a stop, and the doors opened. On the far side was a short, snowy tunnel, lit from nowhere in particular with a bluish glow. Compliments of the College of Winterhold. They'd hidden all three Great Lifts beneath magical snow piles.

Thorald stepped out into the cold of the tunnel, his ebony sword held loosely at his side. This was going to be good.

One of the people from Squad 30—one of the Breton ladies, it sounded like—said, "No, Deccaro. I definitely didn't hear that story. Wow."

"Well," the Imperial said while following Thorald out, "instead of following his quarry north to Solitude, he actually went back _south_ , and joined the local city guard."

"I'm sure they were thrilled to receive him," said Alysca.

"Well, when you think about, it was perfect. He probably got saved from a grisly fate at the hands of the Empire. I mean, sure, you could worry about his loyalty, but he was a changed elf. In the end, all it took was one little flip for a Thalmor soldier to become a Morthal soldier."

Thorald ignored everyone's very colorful reactions to that ending, and whispered the password to the wall at the end of the tunnel. It promptly melted away to reveal a passage to the outdoors.

Echallos asked, "Deccaro, did you just make that up?"

"Why, yes I did," Decarro said, without even a hint of shame.

Outside, there was a windswept mountainside of snow and ice, overlooking an evergreen forest. It was hard to see more than that because it was snowing out here. It was snowing, and the wind was rushing by, and Thorald was getting snowflakes in his eyes already. He stepped out and took a look around. Straight ahead, the mountainside veered downward sharply. To the left, it was a slower, more gentle declined. To the right, it went upward—and there was an obviously dwarven staircase right there along the mountain path, helping span the incline. Up beyond it, he could faintly see the gray vertical walls of a dwarven city exterior.

"All right, let's move up," he said, over the noise of the wind. He was having to ignore his own feelings of cold. At least they'd presumably be back inside soon. Once everyone was out and the hillside was sealed again, he pointed to the stairs. "Crossbows, take point. Galurag, you're with me. The rest of you, stay close, and let's get inside there quick."

The two armored figures with the crossbows in their arms wordlessly joined each other in walking abreast up the snowy path. Thorald fell in line behind them, and his Squad 30 counterpart came up on his right. There weren't a lot of people around here who were taller than Thorald, but Galurag was one. He was the sort of Orc who could conceivably win an arm-wrestling contest with Kamian.

Just kidding, no one could win an arm-wrestling contest with Kamian. He probably practiced on dwarven centurions, for lack of anyone else who was big enough.

The staircases continued along a sporadic switchback. There were walls and platforms to go around and on, all made of the same ancient dwarven stone. For being actual millennia old, it was all in pretty good shape. Thorald wondered how that worked. Maybe he could ask Zaryth, and then a few days later, once she was done answering, he could invite her to come look at this herself.

An orange glint caught Thorald's eye up ahead. Or, not a glint. An actual light. A campfire. Someone had a campfire going, out here in the snow. Better ideas had definitely been had.

It turned out that the fire was directly in front of a pair of big metal doors. Up on top of a wide stone porch, accessible by stairs on either side, set into a big flat wall jutting out from the mountainside. It looked like there were a few people huddled around the fire. Three of them. Bandits if Thorald had ever seen them, but since they weren't wearing Thalmor uniforms, it wasn't all right to just kill them without even giving them a chance to surrender first.

That said, the fact that they were out here meant that more were inside. These were just the sentry watch. Three sentries. Thorald hoped there weren't too many others. If they were looting the city, that could be a problem.

Decarro and Kev took up a ready stance and aimed their crossbows. Galurag called out in his booming Orc voice, "IDENTIFY YOURSELVES."

The sentries immediately scrambled to attention, drawing an assortment of weapons. Bows and arrows, in fact. They began to aim right at the Black Gears coming up, Thorald included.

It only took one bolt apiece. Kev got two, Decarro got one. Their crossbows were as heavy as they were because they were outfitted to pump out something like two bolts per second. There was a lot of machinery and ammunition on their undersides. But the end result was three dead sentries and no retaliation of any sort.

Decarro and Kev lowered their weapons, and the two squads proceeded forward.

"So, bandits," Thorald said. "Looks like we're going to get to take part in Skyrim's official pastime."

Galurag asked, "Does this change our tactics?"

Thorald shook his head. "We'll proceed as planned. If any of them yield, we'll restrain them, pick them up later. But I'm not holding my breath."

The squads were moving in a double column formation. They split apart into single file to head up the left and right staircases, and met again at the top.

Decarro touched the end of his crossbow to the doors. "On three?"

Thorald leaned over and grabbed onto the door handle. Across from him, Galurag did the same. With his free hand, he counted down on his fingers—three, two, one—

The instant they swung the doors open, Decarro pulled his trigger. Someone far away on the other side cried out, then something metallic crashed and tumbled over the course of a couple seconds. Then the crossbowmen were striding down into the city of Raldbthar, and Thorald was following.

It looked like the inside of any other dwarven city in here. The air was certainly warm, which was a relief. There was a corridor, which almost immediately turned to a staircase going down. At its bottom, a person in steel plate armor was sprawled face-down on the floor, in a growing puddle of blood. They must've fallen down the stairs. Explained the noise.

Thorald followed the crossbowmen down the stairs closely. It didn't sound like anyone had raised an alarm in here. Behind him, one of the squad members very considerately closed the doors behind them.

There were bedrolls on the floors around here. A couple bandits were lazing on them, unarmored, but with their gear nearby. Didn't they know it was already mid-morning?

The crossbowmen killed them before they could even get up. At this point, Thorald didn't even need to slow down his walk. They went from one corridor to the next, and anytime a bandit got in their way, they'd get dropped right then and there. It wasn't even close to being a fight.

This part of the ruin did seem quite thoroughly lived-in. Thorald was disgusted to see, at one point, that the bandits were using a constantly-spraying fire trap to roast a skeever. Presumably, this meant they'd intended on actually _eating_ the thing at some point.

In any case, he barely paid attention for most of this part. According to Kamian, their special magical item would be towards the very bottom of this ruin, and they hadn't even been in here for five minutes. He just walked along and let the crossbowmen handle the actual work.

Eventually, when all of the bandits around them were lying dead on the ground, the Black Gears came upon a closed door. It looked like the bandits had actually barred it, from the outside, with a bar of dwarven scrap metal stuck through the door handles. Apparently they hadn't wanted to deal with whatever was on the other side.

Galurag stepped forward and casually wrenched the metal free with one hand. The doors swung open slightly.

On the other side was a short hallway, S-bending to the left. It was full of rubble, and there was an ominous metal iris on the wall, with a vertical track descending beneath it to the floor. To no one's surprise, as the Black Gears came near the iris, it opened and deployed a sphere of steaming metal plates, which slid down the rail and began to unfold into a full-height automaton.

While the sphere went about this, Decarro and Kev pumped it full of so many bolts that its wheel-plates couldn't even turn. The moment it unfolded, it proceeded to topple over onto its side and stay that way.

So, that explained the door bar well enough.

Beyond the S-bend was another solid double door, this one leading to a large, open room. It was filled with all kinds of big pipes and machinery around the sides, plus some piles of stone rubble from nowhere in particular. On the far side of the room was an open doorway, and… that was all.

Except a dwarven spider worker was sitting there in the middle of it, picking away at some of the rubble. Thorald had never seen one of these intact before. Its movements were so precise and deliberate. Fast, but obviously mechanical.

"Hold," Thorald said, before either of the crossbowmen could do their work on this one. "Let's stun it and trap it. Then we can shoot the rest."

Then he turned and looked over his shoulder at Echallos. "You're up."

According to one of Zaryth's many explanations of how Dwemer things worked, the little gyro mechanisms on top of these spiders had some kind of sensors inside, which could be disabled for a few seconds with a well-placed disruption. Unfortunately, this was the first time that anyone in the Black Machine was going to be able to test that.

Echallos stepped out in front of the crossbowmen, then lit up a shock spell and sent a lightning bolt at the spider. It snapped instantly through the air, and hit one of the spider's legs. All it did was dent one of the joints out of shape. The spider promptly turned and started crawling towards them, limping awkwardly from the bad leg. So, that had missed.

Thorald said, "Stand by. Echallos, keep going."

The Breton nodded and tried again. Surprisingly, the second try actually worked. His lightning bolt connected with the open arches of metal on top of the spider's body, and the automaton stiffened and froze in place. For some reason, Thorald had thought it would only work on the third try, or at the very last possible second or something like that. Apparently, his squadmate was a better shot than he'd expected.

The moment the spider froze up, Thorald ran out into the room and scooped it up under his arm. It was heavier than he'd expected. He switched to two arms almost immediately. He was very painfully aware that it could come back to life at any second and start attacking him, so he ran back out into the previous room very quickly.

As he did, he realized that two more of those dwarven spheres had deployed, and were rolling on after him. Something glanced hard off the back of his left shoulder, but he just kept running. The moment he was out of the way, he heard the crossbowmen get to work behind him. A moment later, he also heard a whole bunch of destruction spells going off. Good for them. Thorald didn't even want to look.

The dwarves, for whatever reason, had a habit of putting storage spaces right off of main rooms, typically closed off with a barred door—sometimes locked, sometimes not. One of the unlocked ones was nearby, and another of his squadmates—Alysca, he thought—ran over and opened its doors as he came up to it. He pretty much just dropped the spider on the floor inside. Granted, he fell on his knees first so it wouldn't have to drop quite as far, but… that'd been really heavy.

Within that span of time, both of the spheres had been destroyed. Thorald was pretty sure of it, at least, because the other Black Gears were already returning their attention to him.

The moment he was back out, Alysca shut the doors again, and set about latching them shut. Or, no—she wasn't just latching them shut, she was _tying_ them shut, with a length of rope on top of the latching mechanism. That was smart. The spider wouldn't be able to jump up and cut at the rope if it was that high up.

As Alysca was working, Thorald walked back to Echallos and nodded appreciatively. "That was good. Zaryth's gonna be happy."

"Consider it her birthday present," Echallos said mirthfully, before adding, "Wait, isn't it _your_ birthday soon?"

Thorald raised his hands. He was aware that everyone was watching him now. It was somehow even less comfortable than holding the spider. "Ahhh, that's the 29th."

"Huh, good thing it's not a few days later. If it were in Mid Year, you might have to wait a while." Echallos scratched at the back of his neck, then looked down the S-bending corridor. It was empty in there.

"All right." Thorald nodded. He realized, at that moment, that the list of people looking at him included Galurag. The Orc was just standing there with his war hammer in his hands, awaiting orders.

Usually, from what Thorald had heard, the rule of thumb between squads was that lower-numbered squad leaders ranked higher, in the event that someone needed to take charge of everyone present. So this wasn't really that much of a surprise. But even the squad leaders from 28 down tended to all defer to Thorald's judgment. He didn't know why. He'd just been in some lucky circumstances that let him look like a hero, same as any of them in the Black Machine.

It kind of made him feel a little sheepish at times. Like right now, when everyone—gigantic Orc squad leader guy included—was staring at him and waiting for something to happen.

Behind them, the spider had regained its movement, and had started scraping loudly at the door with its claws. Thorald sighed. "All right, let's get going before that thing learns how to saw through metal bars. Crossbows, how's your ammo?"

Deccaro and Kev examined the cylinders on their crossbows' undersides. Self-loading quivers, essentially. The cylinders' outer surface had a continuous ring cut away and replaced with green elven-style glass, to let the contents inside be visible. The quivers had a capacity of forty bolts, which was incredibly generous, but they'd been going through here for a while now.

"Seven remaining," said Kev.

"Twelve here," said Decarro.

"All right, switch them out and let's move." Thorald motioned for his squadmates to come up. In the interest of not overburdening the crossbowmen, the extra ammunition was shared between everyone. Alysca and Tyreel unslung their packs, and fished out fresh bolt quivers to trade for the spent ones. They were very easy to replace on the crossbows, too. The entire process was done within fifteen seconds.

The Dragonborn had put together some really interesting stuff for them, in his time. If it weren't for these crossbows relying on centurion dynamo parts for their self-drawing process, these could have changed the face of warfare across all Tamriel. Even the Dwemer themselves hadn't been this ambitious.

The spider was still scrabbling uselessly at the door. Thorald felt a little bad for it. At least Zaryth was going to use it for helpful study.

"Galurag, you and I are on point," he said as he started down the hallway. "Stay close. These automatons like to pop out at random. Possibly behind us."

Galurag came up by him. Everyone in the Black Machine had an ebony sword, but at this point, swords weren't the ideal tool. As they proceeded down the corridor and past the wreckage of the spheres, the two of them exchanged a knowing glance, and sheathed their blades in favor of the weapons they were carrying on their backs.

Thorald hadn't trained much with war hammers until he'd joined the Dragonborn's army. There was enough dwarven metal laying around for them to have one for everybody. And he'd always disliked how slow and heavy they were, but right now, he couldn't be happier for the experience. Versatile as swords were, there just wasn't a better weapon than this for handling dwarven automatons.

Beyond the large room, the doorway led to a short corridor that turned left to a staircase. Thorald had just enough time to notice the big suspicious slit running down the middle of the stairs, bordered by a bit of smooth ramp on either side, that was obviously perfectly safe—before a dwarven spider jumped out of a floor panel straight at his face.

Out of sheer reflex, Thorald raised his hammer in front of him defensively. The spider actually collided with the hammer's metal-clad haft. He stumbled backwards, the spider landed on the floor, and then a huge golden blur slammed down into the spider's top so hard that its inner mechanisms exploded out its sides.

Galurag pried his hammer back out of the wreckage, then snorted dismissively. "Zaryth's studies must not be very ambitious," he grunted.

Thorald chuckled. "Well, you'd be surprised."

Then he began to walk up to the staircase—and immediately stopped in his tracks, because the moment he did, a pair of spinning blade traps popped up and unfolded in the middle of the staircase. They followed a simple, back-and-forth pattern—they'd move out to the ends of the staircase, pause, move in to the middle again, pause, and repeat, whirling about with their huge spinning shin-height cleavers the whole time.

Behind him, Echallos said, "Oh, now what is the point of _this?_ "

"I don't know," Thorald shrugged. "I didn't even step on a pressure plate. It's just doing this."

Galurag actually pointed and laughed. "Hah! Look. The blades aren't even reaching the walls. We can just walk past this."

And he was right. Besides a couple of pairs of imbedded half-pillars, which made for brief choke points, there was a good foot or so of clearance between the blades and the corridor walls.

Kev lowered his crossbow and sighed. "Ugh. Why would they even build this?"

"We obviously don't understand logic as well as the Dwemer did," Echallos said.

Logic or no, Thorald did have a decision to make. He sighed and turned around to look at the others. "All right. Stay here. Galurag and I will go up ahead and look for a release on the trap."

Decarro asked, "What if there's something really bad up there?"

"Then since it's only two of us, we'll be able to make a quick retreat," Thorald said. "I have a feeling this trap wasn't supposed to kill intruders itself. It was just supposed to slow them down, make them have to maneuver their way past. Gods only know why it triggered just now, though. Galurag, you ready for this?"

The Orc hefted his hammer and nodded once. His confidence shone even through the expressionless visor. He really looked the part of a good squad leader. "On your word, Thorald."

"Let's go." Thorald started for the left edge of the staircase, while Galurag took the right. They waited for the blades to move all the way out before darting past the first pair of pillars—and then waited for the blades to come in before passing the second pair. Easy, supposedly, but Thorald's heart was still in his throat for that whole thing. That trap was not fun.

At the top of the staircase was a right turn, leading to a big, tall, completely bewildering room. The whole thing was just crammed with pipes and pistons and gears all over the place. Maybe at some point, it'd been for some kind of steam-related thing, but now a few of the pipes were burst apart and completely empty. Towards the middle of it all, there was a nozzle on the floor, spraying fire straight up into the air, on and off. Thorald had absolutely no idea what he was looking at, but the stairway out of here was on the far side of it

Then two more dwarven spheres rolled out of the far wall and started coming at them. Thorald cursed under his breath.

This time, he didn't turn and run. That wasn't an option. But they were raising crossbows at him, and ebony or no, there was only so much this armor could take. He ducked back around the corner just in time to watch two golden-tipped arrows bounce off the wall behind where he'd been.

There wasn't a lot of room up here to hide. Thorald ended up standing just by Galurag's side. The top of the blade trap's path took it very uncomfortably close to his calves.

He glanced down over his shoulder and called out, "Two spheres! Stay put. We might need to move back in a second."

Then he poked his head out again, and ducked back as more bolts came flying his way.

"They can just wait us out, you know," Galurag said. And he was right. There wasn't even any point retreating back down the stairs. The spheres had no reason to chase them.

"Aye. Stay here. I'm going to try something." Thorald waited for the spinning blades to get away from his legs, then stepped back away from the corner—and punched one of the buttons on his inner left forearm.

Instantly, he vanished from sight. When he crept back out around the corner, the spheres didn't attack. They were waiting, expectantly, with their crossbows raised. But Thorald was invisible and inaudible. There was nothing for them to target.

He walked forwards carefully. This invisibility was easily disrupted. There was no way he could've safely charged these things head-on, not with those crossbows of theirs, and getting caught walking slowly would be even worse. He controlled his breath, kept it slow, just like his pace. This would be fine.

As he walked closer, he was able to see the more detailed features of the spheres. They were only a few feet apart from each other. They didn't really look that much like people, compared to some of the Dwemer's other pieces of metalworking. Even their faces were just crude, incomplete versions of open-mouthed scowls. Maybe it contributed to their image as pure killing machines. Because that was what they were. The dwarven spiders had all kinds of uses—laborers, miners, menders, whatever, and their use in combat was just an afterthought. But these dwarven spheres existed only to kill. They were a different kind of enemy.

Thorald, himself, was probably more like the spider. He spent a lot of his hours—too few, probably, these days—just being a person. But right now, he was about to see how his capacity as a killing machine held up to that of the Dwemer's creations. Chances were, he'd learn something about himself either way.

He brought his hammer around in a sideways strike that struck the left sphere's crossbow right in the arm. He felt the metal give and dent under his strike—the bolt released, and shot off at a wild angle—and at that moment, he appeared into view. A split second later, the right sphere's bolt glanced off his breastplate. It tumbled and landed harmlessly on the floor somewhere behind him. He loved ebony. It was better than dwarven metal, every time.

That was the crossbows dealt with. The spheres were done with those now. They were ready to switch to their sword-arms. Thorald turned his invisibility potion off—it was going to just make him vanish again, otherwise, it was on a constant slow drip—and turned to run. All they had to do was chase him.

And chase him they did. He could hear them rolling after him, surprisingly quickly. One lunged at him, and he felt its sword bounce off his back. It didn't even knock him off balance. Moments like this were why Thorald was fine with having heavy armor. He should've had a crossbow bolt in his lungs right now anyway.

The spheres should've realized what he was doing, but they weren't really that smart. He just led them along, bit by bit, back to the corner above the staircase. And when he did, Galurag was waiting. He came out from his cover hammer-first, lunging out behind Thorald to strike the right-side sphere in the face. Thorald turned around in time to see the sphere get knocked flat on its back… and push itself right back upright again.

Not important. They were two for two now. This would be fine.

As Galurag re-engaged the right sphere, Thorald circled around to take the one on the left. He called, "Hold!" out to the Black Gears below as he did. Mainly to the crossbowmen. This wasn't a good time to have them shooting into the fray.

Thorald's sphere wasn't doing much besides lunging at him again and again. It seemed to favor a vertical, chopping strike, good for it. Thorald blocked the blows with the haft of his war hammer, one after another, backpedaling carefully as he did. Galurag was doing much the same by him. These spheres were incredibly fast. The Black Machine's war hammers might have been able to take them apart well, but they had to _hit_ first.

After blocking a few strikes, he was considering sidestepping the next so he could strike back. But then Galurag shouted in pain, and his hammer clattered loudly on the floor. The sphere had just sliced deep into his hand. Blood was already getting all over the stone tiles.

Thorald didn't even have time to be worried. He still had a sphere to dodge. When it lunged the next time, he ducked aside and brought his hammer down hard onto its wheel mount. That got it to falter for a second, at least. Now to finish it off—

Behind him, Galurag let out a massive, beastly roar. It was deafeningly loud. Thorald glanced over his shoulder to see that the sphere was over the Orc's head. It was—it was over his head. He was holding it there, on its back, as it writhed in place, unable to strike back. Had he just picked it up? Was that even possible?

That question could wait. Thorald had a sphere to deal with.

It was struggling to move after him, now. The strike to its wheels had put a sort of limp in its rolling. That was an opportunity. Thorald stepped back and wound up for a big, horizontal strike. And predictably enough, the sphere lunged at him, just a fraction of a second too slowly. Thorald's hammer actually hit the sphere right in the sword arm. The elbow joint cracked apart, fastening bolts flying off the far end, and its blade was left hanging off it uselessly.

Thorald turned back just in time to watch Galurag heave the entire sphere down the staircase. It landed in a heap in the middle of the steps, began to right itself—and then the spinning blades tore it to pieces. A shower of metal scrap went flying all over the corridor.

His sphere was backing up now. Retreating, probably to get back to crossbow range. That wouldn't do. And if Galurag could do _that_ just now… Thorald broke into an all-out sprint straight at the sphere, his hammer gripped tightly in his hands. At the last moment, he leapt up into the air, raising his weapon above his head, and then he brought his full weight down into one gigantic swing.

The shock of the blow traveled up his arms and shook him as he landed. He wasn't even sure what he'd done until he lowered the hammer and looked. And even then, it was hard to tell. The sphere had fallen onto its side, obviously broken. It looked like he'd somehow smashed its head into the middle of its chest. The metal frame for both parts was all twisted and bent. That was definitely new.

He turned around to see Galurag pressing a finger to the inside of his bleeding forearm, pushing one of the injector buttons. He'd bled an awful lot on the floor. But he was still standing tall and strong as always, and letting his healing potion do its work. A killing machine, repairing its battle damage after a successful fight. Not a bad sight.

Thorald let out a heavy sigh and walked back to the staircase. He called out, "So, I think maybe the crossbows are a bit tidier about this."

That got a laugh out of everyone. He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled to himself. This was no time to relax for long, but his squadmates had all had to wait helplessly at the bottom of the stairs while he'd fought for his life. They deserved a little acknowledgment.

There was no release visible in the big machinery-crammed room, so the rest of the Black Gears had to come up past the blade trap two at a time, just like Thorald and Galurag had done. Once they were all up, they proceeded to the staircase, and through a winding, shadowy upper level to the room, which had been sort of obscured before by some of the metal grate panels. A few more spiders came out of the walls and attacked them at this point, but Thorald and Galurag had an almost lazy time smashing them apart. After those spheres back there, this felt like child's play.

"I'm surprised you wanted to bring us," Kev said, after the third spider had been smashed in. "Squad 30, that is. This hasn't felt like a two-squad job."

Just as he said that, they came around a corner, and found an open doorway to a dwarven lift. It was just waiting for them, lit ominously bright compared to the darker upper-level corridor before it. What perfect timing.

Thorald laughed out loud. "Oh, you think I brought you to help fight the automatons? No. We haven't gotten to the hard part yet."


	25. Logrolf 4

Loredas, 9:52 AM, 23rd of Second Seed, 4E 202

Hidden Location

He was beginning to remember.

There were memories, broken images in his mind, from a time he had not known, from a life he had not lived.

Logrolf, the mortal life, the mortal the inferior the one who had created this mind, had looked through the conduit and seen shards. He had seen them as the Aurbis, as creation as all creation and the violent shards had become him. The shards of Oblivion. Was he from Oblivion, then?

There was no Oblivion to see through the conduit. There was only the magical origin, or the atlas, the stars of Aetherius. Oblivion was nowhere in sight. Something was wrong with this. Something had happened. Something amiss something deep in his mind he knew it was not right, but his memories were awaiting him. Something had created him, and changed him and now he was wrong.

Or this world was wrong. He could not wait to see it to its end, he had not forgotten, after all—this all had to stop. This had to stop.

Yet he did have to wait. It would take time for the lock between Aetherius and Mundus, for the slow poison, the bar through the spokes of creation—yes, it would do its work, but only in time. And he had time to think, oh so much time. Thinking was no distraction no respite no escape from the pain of this being, all of this being, it all still had to stop, that was the only way, but still… still. He did have time to think, and he would use that time well.

Now he had created plans, as he was sure his foul mortal enemies would, and he knew those mortal enemies were out there. The golden mask was waiting for him, he knew. And so he worked to hide the conduit from all sight, from the prying eyes the slitted eyes of the golden mask. Much of its energy, the aura of the conduit, the power it held, was being used to cancel itself, to hide it from sight. A grim, reluctant, sad necessity. He had other plans, yes he had plans and they were needed, but they had to be slow, because they required the conduit's energy and he limited himself to only a paltry trickle.

The mortals would recognize that he was working to end their horrid existence, and it was no less horrid for their knowing themselves but they would try to stop him. They knew, the golden mask knew, it had seen him, and it had known that he alone was the one doing this, the one forced into this mission. And surely, once they endeavored to stop him, to sabotage his work, they would find some way to do it. He had only to slow them down.

And so he had plans.

The first step was to look through the conduit, into Aetherius, and back into Mundus—he knew it would ring true, that it would show him the places of brightness, the places of focus, he could use these well. It was as seeing Mundus with his own eyes, and yet more than his eyes—he understood the ideas, the magic, the force beneath the false images of this world. And most conveniently, most luckily most absurdly, this was only possible because of the bar he had put through the spokes to begin with.

The connection between Aetherius and Mundus, the threads through the Aurbis, the points in the web, were only threads, changing in number, changing in place, but finite in both. They connected some places of both realms, and in Mundus, in this suffocating shadow, devoid of all other energy, the power of Aetherius radiated from these places. Perhaps some of them changed, or shifted or moved across the land of this world. It mattered not. They were his now.

Normally, he suspected, the points may have been nearly impossible to see. Yet now, with strength pouring in from Aetherius, these points would grow. And with the two planes locked together, the energy, the burning pressure of magic would mount, just as the stars in the sky—yes, he knew of the stars, the atlas of Aetherial being above—just as they grew bright enough to shine even over the sun. And as it mounted, it would grow unstable, and the magic would burn this world, it would cleanse it, and his only true goal would be met.

These threads, between the worlds, were his now. And through the conduit, he looked back through them, extending only the barest, smallest influence. All he desired was to see what he had to work with, to harness in meeting his goal, keeping it from being unmet, being undone, by the mortals.

Many locations meant little to him. It was a slow, endless fruitless aggravating effort, finding a thread through the conduit, extending his mind into it, looking through to the other side—only to see empty fields of grass and trees and snow, and lakes and rivers and plants growing in unnatural rows nearby paltry mortal shelters. Most had yet to show even any sign, any strength of the new force, the disturbance he should have created. It discouraged him, but he continued onward. If he did not, the mortals would surely discover him, and there would be nowhere for this frail mortal prison this fetid sealed suit of skin and wet warm meat he hated it so much, this had to stop, he had to do it, this had to stop. There would be nowhere for him to hide.

Yet there were many threads, and he could only look. Even in places with living mortals moving around and being, they were being and it made him want to reach out and grab their air-breathing throats and wring them until they would just—stop—moving—but he couldn't. He lacked that power, extending himself through these threads. He could only look, and that was the worst, the most discouraging most punishing part of this all. But he continued looking.

And eventually, he was rewarded. Eventually, after countless threads, so much time spent, precious time, and now it was rewarded with something he could use. It was a simple thing, another nameless thread, which led into an enclosed space. Underground, like the one he and the conduit had taken refuge they were hidden in now. It was a tomb, somewhere in the central plains of this land of Skyrim. He could see the motionless bodies of the servants of the dead, the ancient warriors, the draugr, interred in their crude shelves, motionless, yet not lifeless, preserved by a flickering remainder of magic…

He seized that magic. He seized it so quickly that he did not stop to study what it was. He already knew. And it was something that even from here, through this thread that he could only watch he could only helplessly witness the squalor and insanity of this world—no longer. This, he could touch.

And so he seized the magic, and he was in another place.

Logrolf was not Logrolf. This was clear immediately. He stared up at a stone ceiling, mere inches from his face, in an enclosure his body had surely not been in before—yet that was only the smallest of differences. This body was not his, was not Logrolf's. It was another mortal's form. Its muscles were stiff and numb, yet he still raised an appendage, a hand in front of his eyes, to see.

In this body, his skin was a dry, leathery shell, withered and worn away with age, caked with doubtlessly centuries of dust and grime. Beneath, there were muscles, but they were spindly, gangly, all wrong. All wrong. A body disused. Still, it perturbed him no more than any other prison of flesh. This one was merely somewhat older. It was no more or less hideous and repulsive than any other he had seen.

It would suit his purposes.

Slowly, careful not to damage this form unduly, he pushed himself out from the enclosure, and placed his feet upon the floor. His weight was strange. Something was… strange.

This room was a mere hallway. Unremarkable. He was in its corner, and to the left there were stairs, and to the right there was a door. This could have been anywhere, it was so insignificant and mundane, yet he was looking at it not simply through the thread, not so helplessly, not so uselessly—he owned this body now. And he knew, he could tell now that it did have its own mind, and he owned its mind as well.

There must have been some magic, some ancient connection whose nature he did not understand. He had seen many living mortals—too many, by a number equal to the number he had seen—yet they had never shown such a ready connection. The draugr were… What had Logrolf known about the draugr? Not enough, it seemed. It mattered little, now that he was here, and Logrolf's failings were nothing in comparison to this potential.

The draugr, in his body, looked down upon his physical form. Strange brown strands filled the edges of his vision—hair, he realized, this body had hair, brittle and stringy and as disgusting as anything could be when it was slowly extruded like solid pus from ten thousand boils atop one's head. He ignored it, or he tried to, and examined the rest. This body was large, and carried great strength, despite its nature. Ancient armor of blackened steel adorned his form, with harnesses and straps beneath made of some thick, dry sort of skin—leather, he realized. A weapon, a blade, was in a sheath hanging from his hip. This was a warrior's body. It may have been good for its purpose, once. He wanted more.

Power. He would give this body power. Not the conduit's power—only his own. The conduit's would have been visible, and unpredictable, and unwanted. His own… he could control this energy. And he knew, he understood gladly that this one draugr's body was not exceptional in its accessibility. It was a fluke, a random first choice, no more remarkable or memorable than any other of its kind. He would see no trouble in moving on from it.

It was time to solidify his hold. He could do this, he had the power. He withdrew his mind from the one draugr, and looked upon the energy, the shared power the collective of the undead denizens—there was so much more than at first sight, he understood this well, it was as mortal and repulsive as anything else, but… perhaps he could make it some small amount more bearable.

His power took the form of a flame. A quenching, black flame, which spread silently over the thread, and slowly engulfed the facets of the undead magic, and he knew that it was changing it was evolving to fit his image. After so much time spent searching fruitlessly, looking for a mere chance to do something, anything besides watch the world out there—after all of that, this came as a glad relief. It surprised him, truly, how quickly it worked, after so much time spent on everything else.

The flames blanketed the energy in their shadow, and he withdrew that power from the thread. There was no need to look back through it. He could see them.

There was only suffocating blackness. An iron shell surrounded him, a resting place or a grave a prison for this mortal form. He reached out and shoved with all his might, and the shell burst open. The iron lid to the heavy coffin fell aside, and light poured in. He sat upright and trained his primitive mortal eyes upon his own form, darkened and ever-burning with another being's power. He uttered words to himself, immortal words, good words from a foul mortal tongue, and the words gave him hope.

At the same time, he was staggering to his feet in a cave. A natural-seeming cave, not wrought by mortal hands, but a mere accident of this world's cruel workings. It was dim, but he could feel the moist rotten dark brown matter beneath his feet, and hear the stream of water running through this passage. He walked forwards, one limb in front of the other, again and again, and he reached a hand to the axe on his belt. There were creatures ahead. Creatures he could not connect to, could not control. They were massive and many-legged, with rigid shells for skin, and as they saw him, they reacted by expelling arcs of filthy toxic venom at him. Their attack had no effect. He hefted his crude metal weapon, and effortlessly tore the creatures apart. They were not only repulsive, as all of these things were—they were useless. He would not have them.

At the same time, he was in a hallway, upright, his arms crossed over his chest, in a wasting deathly repose. He fell forward onto his knees, his frail body striking the cold unyielding stone, and his throat produced a guttural unliving growl as he looked around him. He was in a corridor, a narrow twisting turning passage of ancient stone overgrown with sickening deep green life, junction after junction connected in a primitive grid. All around him, other draugr were coming forth from their confines, picking up their ancient weapons, rising to their full height. Their flesh was weak, paltry, unfit to exist, yet it was imbued with some fragment of power, and it shone beautifully. Beneath their armor, their bodies were darkened and flickering, burning, smoldering with energy so great so immortal they could scarcely contain it. And their eyes were not their own. He looked into them, and he saw himself.

This was what he had wanted, what he had needed for his plan. This, a physical force he could put to use to show the world to bring their eyes upon him—but the wrong part of him. A distraction. They would endeavor to defend themselves, to preserve their numbers, to fight back against him, in shortsighted mortal fashion. They would be forced to divert their efforts away from finding the conduit, instead burning away their energy, their forces, on gnawing and gnashing at this physical force attacking them. And all he had to do was to keep them distracted, keep them from disrupting his vital process, for long enough to bring his first and foremost plan to its conclusion.

He would need to direct them carefully, however, so that the mortals would not realize that they were simply there as a distraction. More than that, he would need to manufacture a goal, to pretend that they were fighting for something, beyond the mere cause of blind destruction—to make it seem like the mortals had to stop them in order to foil his plans. This would come soon.

Now it was time to continue his search, his effort, no longer fruitless but an effort for more. Having found one source of power was not enough.

He allowed the draugr to pursue their strategy, and moved his attention back to the threads. Back to the connections, the focal points between this plane and the one of magic. He simply picked the brightest strand in sight, and followed it. But as he did, something snagged in his mind, tearing suddenly at him, and it jolted him to the point of sickening. It was no active force—it was very passive, stationary, inert, and he had harmed himself simply by going nearby it.

It was in another underground space. This one was different, an artificial geometry of stone and golden metal. It was easterly of the tomb of draugr, hidden in mountains… Did he know this place?

Logrolf had a memory. He remembered something. Consulting a codex. A stack of written pages, bound together to create a crude insulting semblance of an immortalized thought. But it had contained information, and he struggled to remember it now.

Fragments floated by, twisted shadows of knowledge. He grasped for them desperately, trying, struggling yearning to piece together something, anything to help him now. The thoughts came slowly, but surely.

The Dwemer. The deep elves. A cruel, powerful race of mortals, who, in their quest for more power, more power, always more power, they had done all they could to master the limits of their pointless world. They had lived and died underground, out of the sight of mortals of other colors and shapes. Now, they were all gone, but their cities lived on, their underground dwelling-places, nearly as powerful and dangerous as their inhabitants had been.

He was looking upon a Dwemer city now, he knew, he understood that this was what he saw, but how could it be? What had struck him here? There was a thread, but… it was wrong. He had been snagged, he had been caught by something.

So he focused his thoughts upon the snag. His thoughts hated to be focused, they did not belong as they were, and they did have to stop—this had to stop, this had to stop—but he needed to learn more about this obstruction, this source of yet more pain to him, which did not permit him to come close.

It was deep within the city. He realized this now. He could see into this place—fragments of knowledge, pinholes of vision in a sweeping landscape, he could barely see but he understood this place. An immense, labyrinthine contraption of mechanisms and passages beneath the earth, filled with common mortals of no interest; and beyond them, false imitations of life; and beyond them, some fouler forms of life still. These were all painful to witness, all as horrid as anything else, but he did see them and understand them. They had no magic for him to take hold of, no signal, no light in their darkness, as the draugr had. Useless, all of them. But they did not hold his attention.

He could not see the snag. It was deep within the city, he knew. But he knew this, he understood it, distantly, indirectly, only as a faraway abstraction, because he _could not_ see it. Even staring straight at it, through the vantage point, the clarity the insight of this conduit, all he saw was an area of nothingness, the surrounding spaces blending into each other, not fitting, closing an impossible gap. He was blind when he looked at this point.

This, he knew, on a level he could not describe—he did not have the right words, his mind would not cooperate, it tugged him away, invited him in the wrong directions, to forget this painful effort, but he knew, this elusive thing in this Dwemer city was a danger to him. The activity, the energies of the thread, they simply stopped in the vicinity of this thing. He knew not what it was, but he would have to monitor this, to the best of his power. That would require his attention from now on.

Then, there was something. Another activity. He looked upwards in the city, to see what it was, to discern its source…

No. No, no no no.

Mortals were coming into the city. New mortals, armed and armored mortals, slaughtering all in their path. He looked at them, and he knew instantly, he knew like lightning striking in his mind, shattering all he had hoped for—these were the servants of the golden mask. His enemy, the one who knew him.

They were already working against him. They knew of this blindness. And he realized—this was why he had focused on this one thread, out of so many, he had understood that it was a danger to him. The contents of this Dwemer city, whatever that was, whatever it was for, they could not be allowed to reach it.

And yet he had nothing to control, nothing to reach out to. He could only watch, helplessly, as the golden mask's mortal servants swarmed into the city, deeper, deeper by the second, coming closer and closer to the blind spot. The power of this unknown thing could stop the power of these threads, he realized. It was greater than all that he wielded. He could not allow these servants to reach it. And yet there was nothing he could do.

There was nothing. His plans were coming undone now, even as he watched, even as he witnessed the beginning of his end, there was no way for him to act, his mind would not let him, he could not think of anything—

Enough. This had to stop. He clutched that thought so tightly he willed himself to forget all else, this had to stop, he had to make it stop, he would not surrender now. He would continue.

First, he had questions. Questions that stood in his way, that threatened him with their mystery. What were these mortals looking for?—what was causing it to create a blind spot?—what would they do with it?

The servants of the golden mask were continuing into the city. They were quick, and efficient. And they would likely reach the blind spot, before he could do anything to stop them. In fact, if he took action against them, it would only warn them, only alert them that he was afraid of what they were doing.

Still, he knew too little. He needed to learn more, to understand what was taking place. For now, he would watch these servants closely. The mere sight of them filled him with feelings too low too awful to describe, but he would tolerate this, he would watch, he would learn.

And if that did not provide the answers he needed, he would search elsewhere. The mortals knew things that he did not. They were working against him already, and they had to be stopped—or slowed, they had to be delayed, until enough time had passed that he would be secure, he could rest easy, free from this world. He hoped that the mortals would not be able to stop him, to ruin his work, all of his chance for some sort of peace, simply with their goal in this one Dwemer city. But he would not pause his own work as he waited to find out.

The draugr were ready. They were ready to leave their crypt, their disused place of bodily storage, and set out into the world. And he could see through their eyes, all of them. They were not limited by the confines of the thread. With them under his control, he could go anywhere, see anything, do anything, without leaving the conduit behind.

There were not many of these draugr under his command now. Scarcely a hundred, in fact. It had not been a spacious tomb. This was not enough to begin his work. The mortals were too many, and these were too few.

And so he began to look through Logrolf's memories once again, picking through shards, pursuing subtle hints, piecing together ideas. This tomb had been one of many. All he needed were the locations of more.


	26. Thorald 5

Loredas, 11:01 AM, 23rd of Second Seed, 4E 202

Raldbthar Deep Market

The first thing that hit Thorald was the smell. It hit him even before the doors of the lift opened up. It was just intensely, indescribably foul. Not like the stink of sewage in the streets of a poorly irrigated city, and not like the sickening rotting odor of a days-old battlefield. This was different. It smelled like poison ought to have smelled.

And then the gates swung open, and they were faced with an empty, derelict corridor, sloping downward. Well, empty besides the rubble, and another one of those blade-trap slits running down the middle of the floor. At the bottom, a broken segment of that big thick metal piping was stuck across the floor. The lights in here, for whatever reason, were all burning at half strength, leaving a dim, cold-looking, ambient light that made this whole place look like nighttime. The air was filled with a low, chilling fog, swirling along in barely-visible wisps.

This wasn't the home of the automatons. Thorald would be surprised if they found a single one intact down here.

He looked to the others in the lift. "Falmer," he whispered. "Try not to speak. They'll hear."

From that point onward, they were on to using body language only. Not exactly something that the common warriors of Skyrim knew how to do. But fortunately, since joining the Black Machine, Thorald and the others had had a few months to train. So when he motioned for the crossbowmen to go first, everyone knew what was coming next.

The spinning blade trap activated by itself—just one pair of blades this time, going up and down the ramp. No real surprise here. Like last time, the safest way past was to use careful timing, and hug the walls whenever the blades went by. So it took a little while. Thorald and Galurag went second, which gave Decarro and Kev a few seconds at the bottom of the ramp by themselves.

By the time Thorald got down to meet them, they were already aiming and shooting.

The corridor opened up to a huge, open atrium, with a natural cavern roof, not all unlike the Alftand cathedral. It had two distinct levels. The lower one was an open floor, littered with more debris, some dirt piled up around the edges, and a few tiny little huts made from some kind of dark organic shell-stuff. The upper one was a series of high platforms, connected by bridges and ramps. It was all centered around a single, huge stone platform, which was standing on four tall, thin pillars—it looked like a gigantic table in the middle of the room. A standard overly-thick tower structure rose from the giant tabletop to the ceiling. It was all pretty interesting stuff. Zaryth would've loved it, he bet.

Besides that the whole place was crawling with hostile life. Hunched, scrawny shapes scurrying about on two legs, over the floor, over the ramps, over the balconies. Their skin was sickly pale, but they were wearing this dark, organic-looking armor that could've just been part of their bodies, for how inhuman they looked. Every single one of them was carrying some kind of weapon.

These were the Falmer. The eyeless, primitive race that'd been bred as the Dwemer's slaves, before inheriting their disappeared masters' old homes. Thorald might've taken the time to contemplate their state of being for a while, but they were already getting cut down by crossbow bolts. He was all right with this.

The Falmer didn't take long to realize something was going on. With the muffle enchant on the Black Gears' boots, everything they did and touched was perfectly silent, but the blade trap on the ramp was still whirling away, and that would've been audible from across the entire hall. Plus, there were Falmer bodies thudding on the floor every few seconds. That was a bit of a tip-off.

Thorald signaled for the crossbowmen to cease attacking, and then pointed off to the left of the room. The Falmer would naturally focus on the source of noise. It wouldn't be good for them to come straight at the two squads' ranged support.

Deccaro and Kev lowered their crossbows and stalked off without a word. They seemed to get the idea. But as Galurag began to follow after them, Thorald held up a hand for him to stop.

The other six Black Gears were piling up at the bottom of the staircase. Thorald spread them out into a line formation just beyond the doorway, where they were on a low stone platform that basically amounted to a porch. It wouldn't help if they were getting in each other's way for this part.

Out here, Thorald could see the near corners of the room. The left was just a solid rock face, but on the right, there was a little fenced-in enclosure, made of that weird shell-stuff, with a couple of skeevers laying dead in the dirt. And to its left, lit up by some bluish fungus on the rocks above, was… a tanning rack? It was just sitting there.

And a woman's corpse was lying by it. Wearing a brown belted dress, sprawled on the ground with a huge gash in her throat. There were some pinkish chunks of meat on a table nearby.

Thorald controlled his breathing. He observed himself reacting—his heart was speeding up, his muscles were tightening. This was no time for him to stop being a Black Gear. He would continue making tactical decisions and fighting well, no matter what he saw in this ruin.

Strictly speaking, no one had ordered him to kill all of the Falmer down here. But he decided, right then, looking at this dead woman by the tanning rack of human skin, that he was going to do it anyway.

That was definitely a tactical decision.

Meanwhile, the Falmer were scurrying about, making wordless guttural noises, scrambling to get down the ramps and head right for the source of the blade-trap sound. Where they thought their attackers were.

And they were right, at least a little. Thorald was keeping the majority of his force's strength here. If they all snuck off to the side, then the Falmer would start spreading out and searching for them—and they'd have time to go on the defensive, which was always bad on the enemy's home territory, let alone when the territory was a Dwemer ruin. Better to give these Falmer something to come out and throw themselves at.

While, of course, keeping the crossbowmen out of harm's way so they could keep thinning the crowd. Best of both worlds.

As Thorald took up a spot at the center of the porch, sword ready in hand, he took another look around the farther parts of the room. It looked like there were a couple big exits on the back and left walls, but they were caved in. Where were all of these Falmer living, then? Somewhere else?

Too bad these creatures couldn't talk. He would've had such a good chance to ask them right then. They were pouring down the stairs at the back of the room, a good couple dozen of them, all charging with weapons aloft. Not a very cautious tactic, Thorald thought. They mustn't have been able to hear anything to use their bows and arrows on, because practically all of them had those on their backs—that meaning, not in their hands.

Instead of saying anything out loud, Thorald simply gestured for the others to ready themselves. It would've been nice to get to back into the other room, force the Falmer to extend themselves a bit more—but there _was_ a spinning blade trap back there. This would have to do.

The closest few Falmer fell flat on the ground with crossbow bolts deep in their chests. The ones after them ran straight over the seconds-old corpses. Thorald had been about to make some observation about how they looked up close, but then the charge—still waning from the constant crossbow attacks—reached the foot of the staircase, and the fight began.

Thorald had his sword in one hand, pointed forward from behind his ear, with the other hand outstretched. When the first of the Falmer came at him, it was with a crude, pick-like axe overhead—and Thorald just lunged in, reached up and grabbed it by the haft before it could come down. In the same motion, he plunged his sword forward and neatly stabbed the Falmer in the throat. He watched its lipless mouth hang open and pool up with blood for half a second, then pulled the blade out and let the creature fall to make room for the next.

By the time that first body had landed, all seven of his fellow soldiers had taken the enemy on. Blades were clashing, Falmer voices were hissing and shouting, spells were being cast—some of the spells were from the Falmer, that was interesting. Thorald's next opponent, this one practically unarmed and unarmored compared to the last, attacked him with a dual-cast frost spell.

Of course, the spell did absolutely nothing. Thorald just walked forwards and gave the creature another stab before moving on to help with the others. It was a quick, decisive fight. At one point, a blade struck his leg from behind, but it bounced harmlessly off the plate armor. He swung his blade back around so hard that it took the offending Falmer's head clean off. That was… easier than he thought it'd be, honestly. Might've been the ebony edge. He was becoming very fond of that.

As the fight drew to a close, and Thorald set about helping finish off the wounded stragglers, he noted—kind of oddly, but he noted it anyway—that these creatures didn't smell particularly bad up close. It was more just the whole place that was offensive. Their skin was so pallid and sinewy and malformed, he might've expected to be completely nauseated by its odor, but it was hairless and neat and seemingly somehow not as putrid as all the air around it.

This had no effect on how willing he was to exterminate the lot of these things. That dead woman was still right there on the ground, not twenty feet from the bodies of her killers.

The eight of them rejoined the crossbowmen, and proceeded up the stairs in short order. But Thorald couldn't get that woman out of his head. She'd obviously been dead for no longer than a day, for how fresh her corpse had been. If they'd launched this attack a day earlier, she might've still been alive.

Or if they'd launched this attack all the way back in Sun's Dawn, they might've saved dozens more people. Thorald was starting to understand why the Dragonborn had turned his whole life into a mathematical exercise of saving the lives of others. It was for situations like this.

They'd have to clear out Mzinchaleft after this too, he thought. And every other Dwemer ruin in Skyrim. If they all had creatures inside who were snatching up random people and skinning them for leather, the people in question really needed someone to come help.

But Thorald didn't speak a word of this. No one said anything at all. They just made their way up the stairs and ramps, and crossed that big table-platform-area to the far side of the room. It looked like the only intact exit out of here was on the back wall of the higher level, behind a big screen of barred metal panels. Thorald wagered that this was going to be some kind of backdoor maintenance area. It was so, so far out of the way compared to those caved-in doors earlier. With any luck, it would actually go someplace, but he was bracing for the possibility that it'd be a dead end.

There was a pair of solid doors set deep into the wall. Thorald motioned for the crossbowmen to step back, and joined Galurag at the front, so they could pull the doors open at once. It was just like at Raldbthar's surface entrance. They both grabbed a handle each, pulled the doors open, and… nothing. The crossbowmen weren't shooting.

And as the doors opened up, the ruin's background machine-noise got a lot louder. For good reason: Seemingly half of the machinery in Raldbthar was there on the other side. It was a fairly narrow corridor, all the more so because it was full of gears and pipes—mainly pipes, rows of them coming up from the floor to run diagonally out to the walls, and then more pipes from there, and… well, there weren't any Falmer in here, at least. Thorald was counting his blessings.

Someone stepped forward. Their numbering said it was Echallos. He was looking to the others, holding an open hand outward against the side of his helmet—listen? Was he telling them to listen?

There wasn't much to listen to. Thorald motioned for the others to stay back, and headed forwards with his sword in hand. Galurag and Echallos wordlessly followed. Thorald wondered if he should have been switching back to his hammer right then.

Then he stopped wondering, and actually switched to the hammer. Might as well. He didn't know what was coming, and hammers probably did better against Falmer than swords did against automatons.

Echallos was leading the way—there was a pressure plate trap at the top of the staircase here, with an incredibly obvious dwarven siege weapon pointed at it from directly above the bottom of the stairs, how clever. He seemed to be looking for something, but Thorald couldn't tell what. Some source of sound, apparently.

He saw it at the same time that he heard it. It was right in the middle of the corridor, coming up from what must've been a puddle of water from all the steam-stuff, right through the gaps in the floor tiles. He should've heard it the moment they opened the door, but the machinery had been so loud, he hadn't noticed.

How could he not have noticed?

There was a nirnroot growing from the floor. A healthy green nirnroot plant, not red like the ones in Blackreach, shining its white light and making its high-pitched chiming sound. And it was growing. As in, it was rapidly getting bigger, even as Thorald stared at it. Already, it was half again taller than any nirnroot ever should have been. And its leaves were continuing to sprout and broaden and grow, with no sign of slowing down.

This was wrong. This was very actively wrong. Forget the Falmer. They'd just found something to be _really_ afraid of in this ruin. Thorald didn't want to be here anymore.

Echallos turned around to look at the two squad leaders, silently. He seemed to be awaiting orders.

But Thorald never got the chance to give any, because right then, the floor cracked open. The entire floor, from one end of the corridor to the other, simply broke apart under some unseen force, a whole bunch of fractures all spreading out from the nirnroot's base. It was so loud, he felt actual pain inside his ears. The pipes connected to the floor ruptured instantly, spraying blinding clouds of steam into the air, and Thorald had just enough time to see the cracks starting to spread up the walls before they disappeared in the haze.

He didn't even have time to react. He was still mentally at the part where a giant nirnroot was growing out of the floor.

Echallos barreled in right at him, slamming into his chest, knocking him onto his back. The floor began to tilt and sag, seemingly under his own weight. A moment later, some huge piece of metal crashed down where he'd just been standing. Thorald grabbed his squadmate by the arm and twisted himself around onto his front, searching for a handhold, something to grab onto. Another Black Gear—Galurag, he realized—was kneeling just a few feet ahead of him, where the floor was still solid, reaching out with the head of his hammer. That'd do.

That'd have to do. Thorald didn't understand any of this. But he could save his incredulity for another time. Right now, he had to reach out, and take hold of the end of that hammer.

Then the floor fell out from under him. He lost hold of Echallos, lost hold of the stone tiles, and all around him there was just chaos. Chaos. Deafening, crashing tumbling debris, rolling everywhere, crushing his limbs, pushing him this way and that, tearing at him through his armor, filling his whole vision—everything was dark, and he was falling, he could tell he was falling.

He observed, in the back of his mind, that this was getting to be a really strange mission right now.

Thorald woke up on his back. He must've actually blacked out for a moment there. But he was on his back, on a stone floor, looking up at a high ceiling. There was debris everywhere, but Echallos was on the ground next to him, lying still, but breathing steadily. How had they gotten through all that in one piece?

It must have been because they'd been so close to the edge when everything caved in, Thorald thought. They'd been among the last of the things to fall in, so they hadn't gotten buried. But apparently, there had been another space beneath that corridor, which they'd just spilled out into. Didn't exactly spare him from being covered in stone dust, though. At least it'd settled already. He didn't want to breathe it in.

As he sat up, he found himself looking at a big, solid wall, which had obviously just exploded outward with all the debris coming in behind it. There might've been a doorway here, he figured, to another corridor. Where most of the debris had landed. Interesting.

Then he turned around, and saw something like fifteen Falmer slowly closing in on him, weapons drawn.

He was going to mutter a curse word, but then realized that'd make them hear him. The muffle enchant on his armor was the only reason they weren't coming in faster. They could probably smell the unwanted company in their home, but they couldn't hear anything in the scent's direction, and it was confusing them. Very convenient, in a life-saving sort of way.

At least he'd sheathed his sword earlier. That hammer was long gone. He drew the blade once again and pushed himself to his feet, giving Echallos a nudge on the way.

Echallos wasn't getting up right then. This was awkward.

Thorald realized, with a bit of a start, that he'd landed in a completely spectacular room. For one thing, it was completely huge. The doorway he'd come in through was just one out of maybe twenty on the floor here, ten on this side, ten on the opposite. He'd just come through the leftmost door on his side—or rightmost, now that he was facing away, so he was in the corner. At least there were stairs by him.

The room was another double-height sort, and above the doorways, there were … more doorways, actually, set a short distance back to make a constant running balcony, accessible by twin stairways at either end, one of which Thorald was right by now. Between each pair of stairways was an even bigger, main entrance-type doorway, the nearer one of which had been buried behind a pile of rubble. A big, wide, flat central bridge ran across the middle of the room, held up by a row of thick columns. Beneath it, the floor was littered with more of those Falmer huts here and there.

But most of all, what struck him was the ceiling. It was a natural, cavern-type arching thing, like the big room earlier—except it was covered in mottled little spots of bluish light. It was like the ceiling in Blackreach, only much, much closer up. And he realized, looking at it now, that it was all made of the same kind of glowing fungal patches he'd seen lighting up the area of the tanning rack.

He refused to let that get in the way of his enjoyment of Blackreach's ceiling. It was too beautiful for that.

This must have been some big hub of activity for the Dwemer, once. Now it was crammed full of Falmer. Not even the ones closing in on them at that moment, either. There were more lurking around in the distance, and a whole bunch on the balcony and bridge above. And it was just Thorald and Echallos facing them. Or, not even Echallos. Just Thorald facing them.

Ordinarily, he might've wanted to flee right now so he could start over later, but Echallos wasn't getting up yet. He couldn't leave his squadmate with these things. The Falmer were coming almost within arm's reach—very slowly, very cautiously—and as Thorald looked at them, all he could see was the body of that woman they'd killed. He thought about that for a moment. They'd killed her, like some countless others before her, for nothing more than the use of her skin and flesh. These were his enemy today.

He gave his ebony sword a single twirl to warm up. Time to make his enemy pay.

The Falmer never actually managed to get close enough to attack him. Right when they were about to, he charged forwards and smashed through the tightening crowd, dragging his sword's edge straight through the nearest one's belly on the way. Before any of the others could react, he'd already run past them to the foot of the nearer balcony's staircase. It wasn't too far from Echallos, and their numbers wouldn't mean nearly as much here.

An arrow bounced off the wall in front of him, and then another, and a couple more after that. The Falmer on top of the bridge were all lined up and shooting in his direction, but it completely wasn't working. They couldn't hear him. Neither could the ones down here, the ones he'd just punched through, but after a moment's confused pause, they turned and started running at him anyway, assorted weapons at the ready, making their disgusting Falmer voice-sounds all the while.

A couple of them hung back and started casting spells. Destruction, apparently. An ice spike shattered against Thorald's side without leaving so much as a mark. Magic immunity had his perks. He was just going to ignore those ones.

Actually, how could they even know how to cast spells if they couldn't read spell tomes? Probably a good question for another time.

Thorald ran a short distance up the stairs before resuming his ready stance. He didn't have to wait long for the Falmer to catch up, only a couple seconds or so, but that was time enough. When the first one came up—just some lightly armored creature with a crudely made sword, helmetless, oh did he hate looking at these things' faces—he had his own sword ready and waiting. He lashed out with an outward swing that opened a deep red gash across the creature's chest, leaving it to fall limply off the side of the stairs. By the time it had landed on the floor below, three more of them had taken its place. They seemed just as eager to die as the first.

It was a little awkward, fighting in a slanted position like this. But all of the attention was on Thorald, and that was good. None of the Falmer seemed to realize that Echallos was even there. Thorald slowly backpedaled up the stairs as he went, letting the Falmer overextend themselves trying to get at him, leaving their own extremities vulnerable. These next three went down just as easily as the first, with a few swings left and right, mainly targeted at their unarmored hands and upper arms. And that was good enough. At this point, the next Falmer in line were having to step over the previous ones' bodies, which slowed them down even more. He could handle this.

On the other hand, those arrows were starting to hit the wall a lot closer to him. The archers were hearing the noise of the melee, and adjusting their aim accordingly. And while Thorald was entirely immune to injury from magic, the only protection he had for these arrows was whatever his armor offered.

The instant he considered that comparison, an arrow bounced off his helmet. He felt it knock his head forward a little. Basically that, then.

Still, Thorald fought his way to the top of the stairs without any real trouble. As he did, he saw that Echallos was starting to get up and look around. If the fall had injured him, he could heal himself now. Then he could deal with the Falmer still on the lower level. Most of them were distracted with casting pointless spells at Thorald anyway.

The rest of the Falmer on the staircase were still clambering up after him, but he was nearly at the top. He just kept hacking away—a couple times, one of them would hit him in the wrist or forearm with their weapon of choice, but his armor deflected their strikes without a scratch—until he was at the very top, and there was only one Falmer left. Thorald casually sidestepped the swing of its axe, then trapped the weapon under his free arm and stabbed the wretched creature in the gut.

It didn't look like an immediately fatal wound, so instead of pulling free like usual, he let go of the axe and used both hands to wrench his blade out sideways, half-slashing and half-tearing open its abdomen from inside. His knowledge of the Falmer race's inner anatomy expanded very quickly.

That'd been a bit of an ordeal. The steps below him were littered with so many dead Falmer that it was hard to see the actual stone. And he was already feeling his muscles start to burn from the exertion of getting them that way. Why was it that the first time he'd had a fight on one of these stairways, it'd been one _without_ a spinning blade trap?

The floor below lit up with fast-moving orange light. Echallos was casting firebolt spells at the incoming Falmer down there. He seemed to be holding them at bay well enough, good for him. But that also meant the archers were refocusing their attention, and so Thorald took off to give him a bit of indirect help.

There were ten doors along this balcony, and the bridge was after the fifth. Thorald had to fight his way through even more Falmer just to get over there. He barely paid them any attention. When his muscles started to bother him more than he could ignore, he punched his stamina potion button and—of course, then he felt as good as new. The Falmer were just running at him the whole time, and he was cutting them down, one after another, as he advanced towards the bridge.

The doorways on his right were all open. Strangely, the rooms beyond—while definitely spacious, and full of shelves and counters and such—didn't have any more Falmer in them. At a glance, Thorald might've guessed that they'd actually once been shops of some kind, which would make this whole room basically a market square. But the rooms were empty, both of Falmer and of anything scarier than Falmer. Presumably, any in there had already been alerted and had come out to get him.

In fact, he was probably in the middle of carving his way through them right now. There weren't a lot of other places they could've come from, up here. The shops did probably make good living spaces, even for evil abominations posing as living creatures.

He wondered if these creatures had any offspring somewhere. Did they have kids? Was he going to have to figure out what to do with Falmer kids? That'd be awkward. The adults seemed happy enough to try to eviscerate him right now. And so far, he was happy enough himself to return the favor a hundredfold.

When he did get to the bridge, he found a whole line of archers waiting for him. But approaching them from this angle, they were lined up front to back, not side to side. They couldn't all attack him at once. Meanwhile, all he had to do was run forward.

Strictly speaking, there was a railing to this bridge, but it was only a couple feet high. Less of a real safety measure, more of a reminder that the bridge's width did have limits. Thorald slammed into the first archer with his ebony-covered shoulder, right in the chest, as the bow loosed and the arrow flew off into the air. Then he brought his sword around to chop into the archer's side—but instead of trying to finish him off, he charged forwards with the wounded Falmer as a living shield, which thudded wetly a couple times as more arrows hit it in the back. That stopped it trying to struggle, at least.

Thorald shoved the Falmer's body into the next one in line, using the added weight to just push the creature sideways off the bridge. The arrow-riddled corpse fell off after it and landed on top, which was great. Something for Echallos to deal with. Meanwhile, Thorald had settled into something of a routine—these Falmer didn't seem to understand that maybe now was a good time to stop using their bows, so he just kept closing in to melee range and hacking them up. He'd taken to slashing at their legs and then pushing them over the railing. A couple tried to grab at him on the way, but that was what the sword was for. By the time he'd gotten to the last couple archers, he was covered in spatters of Falmer blood, and the bridge was completely empty behind him.

But these last couple of archers had backed away too much for him to get them right away. And they were already drawing arrows. Thorald didn't even think about his response. He deftly changed hands for his sword, reached for the leather strap on his leg, and with one well-practiced motion, threw a dwarven metal knife straight into the left archer's throat. He almost kind of grinned. He'd been waiting for that to come in handy.

That was one archer. One out of two. The other was still taking aim with his bow and arrow. Maybe if—

Pain jolted through Thorald's leg, sharp intruding pain, right in his inner thigh. The arrow had hit him. Immediately, he could feel a strange, warm sort of sensation spreading from where it'd imbedded in his flesh. A poisoned arrow. How nice. Thorald stayed his nerves, grabbed the arrow by the shaft, and wrenched it straight back out. He didn't bother to take in the pain, or the bleeding, or any of it. He just pressed the button on his arm for a healing potion.

It took only a split second for the wound to heal. The instant his leg stopped hurting, he broke into an all-out sprint forward, straight at the last archer. His attack came with the motion of his running behind it. In one huge motion, he plunged his sword up into the creature's ribcage, from beneath, right into some very vital organs. He gave the blade a good solid twist just to be sure. No more arrows. He was satisfied with that.

There was a furious rasping cry from behind him. He shoved away the archer's body and turned around to see its source. Another Falmer was standing in the middle of the bridge, this one wearing heavier armor than most. And in its hand was… a stick? No, a staff. Or a spear, sort of. It was a strange weapon. It had a dark, fairly long haft, and fixed onto the nearer end was a wickedly curved blade, pointing outwards, basically parallel to the haft itself. It was too short to be a spear or glaive, staffs didn't really have blades like this, and the blade was also too slender and pointed for this to be a battle-axe. It just looked new.

Then the Falmer sank into a ready stance, giving the weapon a smooth, spinning flourish on the way, and Thorald realized that the staff had blades on both ends, their edges curving in opposing directions. What kind of insane weapon was _this?_

Thorald didn't wait for the Falmer to prepare any further. He advanced forwards briskly—not quite a charge, but close to it—and brought his sword in for a quick, neat stab at the vile creature's belly. He didn't expect it to hit, he just wanted to see what would happen.

Sure enough, the Falmer instantly parried his strike, swiping the lower blade of his staff past his front and knocking the sword aside. Thorald expected that. He could recover from here.

Then, an instant later, the upper blade of the staff connected with the side of his neck, slamming into his heavy armor plating, making his head jerk painfully to the side. Then the middle of the haft came up and hit him hard in the visor. The three moves, starting with the parry, had all come in the span of half a second.

Thorald staggered back and tried to bring his sword back up. All right. He _hadn't_ expected that. That strike to his neck should have taken his head clean off. And it would have, if someone had been less cautious in designing his armor. He wasn't going to count on that kind of luck going his way again.

And Echallos was still busy down below. He could hear the fighting going on, even if he couldn't see it. They'd just have to both hold their own until one of them could go help the other out.

The Falmer was advancing slowly, growling under his breath, holding the staff out at a neat diagonal angle. Thorald lunged in again with a low, sweeping slash, which connected with the staff's lower blade—he was ready this time, and brought his hilt up to catch the upper blade against its guard. This time, the Falmer instantly withdrew, spinning the staff in a dizzying defensive maneuver before lashing out with the upper blade once more, this time at Thorald's left arm.

It was uncanny how well the staff was working. Thorald caught the blade and pushed it aside, only to bring the opposing blade right into position against himself. Again, and again, he shoved one end of the staff away, only for the other end to come up at him—eventually, he stepped back as he blocked, and the Falmer's blade carried his own in a full 360-degree circle, pushing against it the whole time from all different angles, before their weapons simply parted ways.

Thorald had just enough time to get back into a defensive stance. He didn't even have time to predict what for. But the Falmer went straight from locking blades to lunging at him again, this time with a stabbing strike, and Thorald had just enough time for his readied sword to get in the way.

He didn't block it very hard, though—just enough for the staff to go under his arm instead of into his belly. And when it went there, he brought his arm down atop it, and locked it against his side. His sword came up underneath, and trapped the weapon's haft against his chest. If he maneuvered this right, he could probably get a strike in of his own, maybe even take off one of the Falmer's arms.

That didn't happen. The Falmer slammed into him with an armored shoulder and pulled the staff away, bringing it around in a full circle for a low, leg-level strike—he didn't even look, he just swung his sword down past his own side, and the staff's upper blade bounced off.

Thorald backpedaled before he could get hit again. But the Falmer wasn't letting up. It spun forward with the lower blade, Thorald jumped back away from that—then the upper blade came right after, he blocked that with a downward swing of his sword—and then the Falmer started alternating strikes, lower blade, upper blade, lower blade, and Thorald blocked each one with an alternating swing of his own, as the two of them walked slowly across the bridge. Eventually, the Falmer rolled with one of the strikes and came down for a vertical swing with the upper blade, which Thorald caught and threw aside with his sword—then, as the move carried through, Thorald ducked his head, and he heard the lower blade fiercely slash through the air where his neck had just been.

The Falmer's back was turned. It'd overshot from what was supposed to be the killing blow. Thorald lunged forwards, aiming to skewer the Falmer between the big overlapping plates on its back. And it should've worked. But the Falmer dropped to one knee, letting the blade pass over its shoulder—and trapped Thorald's lunging blade between its armor and the middle of its staff. Then, an instant later, it stood back up and wrenched the staff downwards. Thorald's weapon tore right out of his hand and flew down the length of the bridge.

There was no time to draw another weapon. There wasn't even any time to strike first. The Falmer whirled around with a vicious uncoiling strike, and Thorald was empty-handed. So he did the very first thing that came to mind, and grabbed the staff by its haft. The impact jolted hard through his wrist, and the Falmer instantly began to pull away, but it was too late. Just like that, Thorald reached across and grabbed the middle of the staff with his right hand. Now he had just as much of a hold on this weapon as his opponent did.

For a few seconds, they wrestled back and forth, struggling to twist each other's motions out of shape, to get each other in the path of the blades—Thorald was strangely reminded of a time he'd done this with a Thalmor scout, fighting over a glass sword. That'd been so much more civilized. This Falmer was gnashing and snarling so much, it looked to be a second away from trying to bite his face off, visor be damned. And all the while, they were locked in a savage struggle over this infuriating two-bladed thing, circling and pushing their way around each other, both trying to somehow gain the upper hand.

Because of how he'd first grabbed onto the staff, Thorald's left hand was holding on with the palm facing up. That gave it a much different range of motion than the right. He began to pull back away, forcing the Falmer to keep up with him—and then, rotating his hand around the crude haft, jumped in and drove his left elbow up into the Falmer's exposed jaw.

The blow connected hard. Again, he felt the shock go through his limb. But the Falmer felt it a whole lot worse. His armor left a bleeding gash across its chin. It staggered in place, stunned by the impact, distracted from its fight for its weapon. That was all Thorald needed. Still holding onto the staff, he turned himself away—for a moment, he was facing away from the Falmer, bending backward, arms outstretched over his own head—and then back around to face forward again. And then, with a sudden tug, the staff was in his hands alone. He'd just rotated the thing a full 360 degrees. When he'd turned to face away, the Falmer had been forced to cross its arms over each other to hold on. And when he'd turned back again, there'd been no way for the Falmer to maintain its grip.

Thorald almost kind of laughed. He'd never disarmed someone like this before. He was pretty sure he was just lucky it'd worked, given how far it'd put him off balance. But obviously, the Falmer hadn't expected it, and that was a huge blessing. This creature was turning out to be _very_ hard to surprise.

Before it could make a grab for its weapon again, he raised his foot and kicked the creature hard in the belly, knocking it back out of reach. Then he flung the staff out over the edge of the bridge. Now they were both without their first weapons of choice. Time to see how that'd go over.

Unsurprisingly, the kick didn't do much damage. The Falmer was still wearing heavy armor, here. It stumbled back a little, taking a couple of big low paces to steady itself. Then it sank into a fighting stance again, and reached behind its back with fingers outstretched. With a neat, practiced motion, it twirled out a pair of curved daggers into its hands, and raised them up at the ready. One held close, one pointed out.

So, this creature wanted to have a knife fight. Good for it.

Thorald responded by drawing the short sword on his left leg. The tempered steel, Akaviri-style weapon he wore on his left leg, to balance the weight of his throwing knives. He did have a longer sword still, made of dwarven metal, but speed mattered more than reach now. At least, as much as speed ever mattered in heavy armor like this.

The Falmer advanced on him slowly. When they got within striking distance this time, it came in with an outward slash—Thorald parried it with his sword, keeping the swing going right past him—and then, before Thorald realized it was even there, the other dagger was slamming upward into his breastplate. He leaned back just in time for it to glance off the gap between it and the armor below.

And then the Falmer was attacking him from every possible angle, seemingly all at once. It was all he could do to defend himself. The curved blades glanced off his armor again and again, even when he blocked them—especially when he blocked them, because that amounted to putting one of his gauntlets in the way of an incoming strike. If it weren't for the heavy armor, his hands and wrists would've been bleeding from a dozen deep wounds already.

Thorald realized he was in much more danger than before. The staff had been good for swinging and slashing, and his suit of full plate armor absorbed the worst of that just fine. But these daggers were made for stabbing. They weren't hurting him much now, but if he kept getting hit, they were going to get into the weak points of his armor very quickly.

His opponent wasn't giving him an opening to get in, with those daggers both in the way. So he made one. Right as the Falmer was in the middle of another upward stab, he charged right in with his sword at the ready—and made the exact same move. The two of them collided bodily with each other, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, and in the same moment, their strikes hit home.

Thorald felt the blade slide in between the plates of his armor, piercing into the cloth of the doublet beneath. An instant later, searing pain exploded through his chest. Out of sheer reflex, he shoved the Falmer away with his hands on its front, making them both stumble back from each other, but that was all he could do. He couldn't breathe. The pain was so much.

The handle of the Falmer's dagger was still sticking out of him. He looked down at it, and tugged it free, and warm wetness began to pour down his front. Oh, did that make him shiver. He was already feeling light-headed. Already, after not even a second.

And then he was pressing the button on his forearm, and the pain all melted away. He was fine. He took a deep breath in, and a deep breath out, and then looked up.

The Falmer had fallen to its knees. Thorald's steel sword was stuck through its belly, right in between its _own_ armor plates, so deep that it must've gone straight through the back. That was just as fatal a wound as Thorald had received. But unlike some of these creatures, this one wasn't casting any spells. It was just kneeling there, choking in shock, clutching its hideous wrinkled claw-like hands over its abdomen, feeling over the point where the blade was stuck into its armor.

Thorald let the bloodstained dagger fall from his hand. His heart was racing, his head was throbbing, his belly still felt uncomfortably wet and sticky, but this fight was over. In fact, all of the fighting was over, in this room. Everything had gone quiet.

In front of him, the Falmer fell forwards onto one hand, then slumped back to sit on the floor, legs out awkwardly to one side. It must've known it was dying. It was taking deep, shuddering, gasping breaths, holding onto its belly with the other hand, but it wasn't trying to do anything else. No vengeful effort to bring him down with it, no last effort to finish the fight itself. It just sat there, its head hanging low, as it slowly bled out onto the stone. The fight was over. The Falmer had lost.

All right. Thorald hadn't forgotten about the tanning rack or anything, but he had to admit—watching this right now, he did feel a little bad.

Right when he was starting to consider risking stepping in and finishing the job, the Falmer coughed violently, spattering blood on the stone beneath it, and fell the rest of the way onto its side. Its breath faltered, then ended with one last guttural noise.

It wasn't very troubling to kill these creatures. But Thorald was sure he'd never caused as much death as he had today. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. All he knew was that it could've been _him_ lying dead on the bridge right then.

On the other hand, all of the other Falmer in the room were dead, which he presumed meant Echallos was still alive. He wasn't seeing the man anywhere down there on the floor below. The only thing down there was the field of bodies they'd left behind.

"Hey!" As if on cue, a familiar voice called out from ahead of him, by the bridge's far end. There he was, then.

"Oh, thank the Nine, you're alive." Thorald couldn't help but smile. After everything else so far… he wasn't alone in here. The fighting was over, but he wasn't alone.

Still, it was best not to stand around. He immediately set about retrieving his sword, and then his throwing knife, from the bodies of the Falmer, one by one, wiping and sheathing them as he went. As he was dealing with the knife, he called out over his shoulder, "Was that all of them?"

"I think so," Echallos said, suddenly very close by. He must've come running across the bridge. Inaudibly, of course. Muffle enchant, and all. Thorald turned to see the Breton holding out his ebony sword, handle-first.

Thorald accepted it, wiped _its_ blade clean, and put that away too. He did not envy the person who would have to clean his rags later. "Thanks," he nodded. "So where in Oblivion are we?"

"I don't know. Some… part of Raldbthar, I presume, not often traveled. Besides by Falmer, apparently." Echallos turned around and surveyed the room. The upper and lower levels were both filled with sightless dead.

"Would've been nice if you'd intervened in my fight ten seconds earlier," Thorald remarked dryly.

"Ahhh, you were doing fine." His squadmate waved it off. "This place must be connected to the rest of the ruin somehow, right? All these Falmer can't have just been living in a sealed bubble of dwarven cityscape."

Thorald nodded and started walking across the balcony, towards the opposite end of the room from where they'd started. "Probably that big door over there between the staircases, right?"

"Probably, yes."

A few seconds went by where they were just walking quietly. The noise of Raldbthar's machinery was rather faint in here. Eventually, Thorald asked, "So what was that nirnroot, do you think?"

"Some… strange magical thing? I don't know. Nirnroots generally don't grow out of the floor. And when they do, they _stop_ growing at some point." Echallos sighed audibly behind him. "I hope the others are all right."

That was a valid concern. Galurag had seemed to be in one piece, the last Thorald had seen, but maybe the cave-in had gotten him as well. "We'll reconnect with them as we can. In the meantime, we need to focus on getting that magic thing we're here for. And hopefully killing all the Falmer we can find. But basically it depends on where the way out of here takes us."

"Not too fond of these Falmer types, are you?"

"I'd—I'd like to exterminate them," Thorald said mildly.

Sure enough, the big double doors between the stairways on this end were unobstructed, and wide open at that. Thorald and Echallos hurried down the steps without a word. Ceiling or no, this room would not be missed.

The doorway led to a wide, spacious corridor full of gears and pipes on the walls, which were actually a little reassuring, just by way of not being more Falmer stuff. Thorald and Echallos entered it side by side. The path of the corridor was a straight line down to another pair of doors, these ones closed. There was a great big chunk of debris nearby—practically as tall as Thorald was, and much wider—with some scrapes dug into the floor between it and the doors. It looked like it might've served as a barricade of some kind. Thorald had to wonder why they'd even want that.

In any case, they quietly headed down the corridor without any trouble. No automatons popped out at them, no traps sprung on them. When the two of them reached the end, they looked at each other, nodded, and each went for one door handle. Then they pulled the doors open at once, and found a pair of crossbows pointed at their chests.

"Hold," said a deep voice. It took Thorald a moment to realize what he was looking at. It was all eight of the other Black Gears, with the crossbowmen in front. Behind them was some other big room of some kind, visibly littered with Falmer corpses. But here they were, all eight of them, reunited with Thorald and Echallos. This was good.

The voice, of course, had been Galurag. He still had his hammer out, but it was heavily bloodstained now. That made sense. He did seem to do well with smashing things.

"Don't shoot," Thorald said, before dryly adding, "That's an order."

Galurag growled, "Very funny. Both of you, remove your helmets."

They wordlessly complied. Thorald observed that his hair had gotten a little sweaty. Could be worse, he could be mortally wounded or something. In any case, he didn't blame Galurag for wanting to be a little cautious now. Two of his fellow soldiers had disappeared in a cave-in, and now were here and seemingly unharmed. And their armor _did_ conceal their faces.

"Now," the armored Orc continued. "On three. What's the name of J'zargo's latest concoction? One, two, three—"

"Moonshock," Thorald and Echallos said at once. Thorald immediately put his helmet back on and said, "What did we miss?"

Galurag nodded in acknowledgment—the crossbowmen lowered their weapons at this point—and then launched into a little on-the-spot explanation. "Even after the corridor caved in, we were still able to get through, with some difficulty. Surprisingly, we were forced to deal with a number of automatons on the other side. There was also a sizable chaurus pen, and dozens of Falmer in the vicinity. We also found the lift back to the surface, but I decided not to leave until we'd searched for you all we could."

"Thanks for that, by the way," Echallos commented.

"You're welcome," Galurag replied without changing tone.

"Yes, this was well-timed of you. Great. We killed some Falmer too, it was fine." Thorald sighed. He had to clear his head. It wasn't even clear to him whether he was done for the day with fighting things. "Um… I think we wanted to get that magical artifact now, right?"

In response, Galurag reached over his shoulder into his pack, and pulled out what looked like a semicircular plate of blue metal, cut partially away and adorned with geometric glyphs and patterns. But it wasn't exactly metal, and it wasn't simply blue. It was glowing with a sort of inner light that made it all the same bright tone without lighting up anything around it. Thorald was reminded of some of the rocks he'd seen in Blackreach. The bright bluish ones, that shone brightly even in total darkness.

"I presume you're talking about this," the Orc said.

This was probably another magical item of incredible power. Thorald was in no mood. "Yes, that's great. We'd best get going."

"Suits me," Echallos muttered. "I just killed more things in one day than I ever have in my life. I… I think I actually lost count. I'm ready to get out of here."

Galurag turned and gestured for the others to follow him. The exit to this big room was across a hinged metal bridge, over a sizable reservoir of water. Typical dwarven stuff. It _was_ going to be good to leave Raldbthar. They had to report to Kamian, and deliver the artifact, and investigate that bizarre thing with the nirnroot, and a whole bunch of other things like that.

Now that he was thinking about it, Thorald wasn't sure if they'd actually cleared all the Falmer out of here. There might've been more. But he could just bring that up with Kamian as well. Fighting these creatures had given him a lot to think about, but the biggest thought of them all was that nothing could justify leaving them be. The world didn't deserve what the Falmer were doing in it.

More thoughts for another time, basically. Thorald was in the same place as Echallos about it—he had, indeed, lost count of how many Falmer he'd killed. Even just surviving the cave-in would've left him pretty much spent, mentally and physically both. And he might've had a handy button-activated potion to keep his body going, but at some point, he had to acknowledge that this was all really deeply exhausting.

Before they got moving, he reached around Echallos' back and gave the guy a sidelong hug. Their armor pressed together comfortably enough, no surprise there. "You were really good."

"Thanks." Echallos smiled wearily at him, then put his own helmet on as well. "Next time you say that, make sure it's after something less horrible."


	27. Ria 5

Fredas, 7:17 AM, 22nd of Second Seed, 4E 202

Jorrvaskr

When Ria and Erik dismounted from Odahviing, they probably could have swaggered on into Jorrvaskr and floored everyone with a boast of what they'd just done. In the entire history of the Companions, only once before had anyone ever come home from a mission on the back of a dragon, and it'd been a member of the Circle. No one had expected it to happen a second time. The two of them could've won themselves the whole evening's attention with that.

But they didn't. Ria didn't even care. She barely even said hello to anyone. Six hours ago, she'd been freezing half to death climbing up the Seven Thousand Steps. One hour ago, she'd been clinging onto the back of a dragon in flight, just trying not to fall off to her death. Now, she was walking into Jorrvaskr, her furs soaked and heavy with melted snow, her muscles seemingly turned to lead… even if someone had asked her what she'd been doing, her thoughts were a swimming mess. She had barely enough energy to get out of her travel gear and get into bed.

Some time later, Ria woke up to find that her entire body was one big sore spot. She was so stiff, she could barely move. It took her a few minutes just to will herself out of bed. It didn't look like anyone else was down here, so she washed off, changed clothes, armored up, and got ready for her day in peace and quiet.

Only four people were in the main room upstairs. The first she saw was Erik, her good loyal Shield-Brother, sleepily poking his way through breakfast. Beside him was, of all people, Athis, talking to him in a low voice. The other two were Tilma, sweeping a corner of floor that already looked perfectly clean, and Vignar, standing in his corner like normal. So… those two basically didn't count, it was just Erik and Athis up here. Good stuff.

Ria hauled herself over and sat down heavily at Erik's right side, across from Athis. She began piling food on her plate without a word.

"Oh, good morning, Ria," Athis said brightly. "I've been hearing quite the story about your mountainside trip."

"Aye, tell me about it," she muttered. At times like this, she wished Jorrvaskr had more things to drink that _weren't_ unbearably strong. The best she could pour herself from within arm's reach was a mug of light-looking ale.

The dark elf shrugged at her. "Well, actually, Erik here hasn't been the most talkative. I only heard the broad strokes. Dragon, and so on."

Erik was completely ignoring both of them, too. He really did look exhausted, poor fellow.

"Well, we haven't turned it in to Farengar yet," Ria said, once she'd gotten some food and drink in her. "But I think we'll have the answers he wanted."

"Did… he want answers? I'm sorry, I have no idea what you got sent off for. Or even where to. I only got back a few days ago, myself."

Finally, Erik spoke up. He leaned back in his seat a little so he wouldn't be in the way, and turned away from Ria to look at the elf on his left. "Wait, where were _you?_ "

"On a job, obviously," Athis said, a bit indignantly. "Vignar's had plenty of work for us all. Anyway, if either of you haven't yet, you might want to look out front. Whiterun's seen a bit of excitement while you were out."

Excitement. These days, that could be a good thing or it could be an awful thing. Equal split, fifty-fifty. The fact that Athis was saying it with a completely straight face didn't help matters.

Erik prodded at his plate of food a bit more, then asked the question that Ria had been about to ask herself. "Can I finish my breakfast first?"

The dark elf sounded confused. "Yes, of course—"

"I wanna see this," Ria muttered, and then started wolfing down the rest of her food without another word. Erik, having gotten a head start, finished first, and politely sat back and waited the extra thirty seconds for Ria to catch up. Presumably, this food tasted good. It was all sort of the same going down, when the only limit was how quickly one could eat it without choking.

The two of them got up, pushed in their chairs, and headed out of Jorrvaskr side by side, leaving Athis sitting where he was. Erik asked her, "Do you know what you're going to say to Farengar?"

"I like that you're already assuming that I'm going to do all of the talking," Ria grinned, as she pushed open the doors. Then she stopped. "… Oh."

How had they not seen this on the way in? This was kind of obvious.

She walked slowly down the stairs to the Wind District center, in the morning shade of the Gildergreen. There were stars visible in the sky again, despite the sun coming up, which was as strange as always, but still—it was a cool, clear morning, and it should have been nice and refreshing. But at the moment, given what Ria was looking at, it just felt strange.

Fortunately, a guard was passing by on patrol, so she had someone to go and bother for answers. Guards were handy like that. "What exactly happened here?"

"Oh, this?" The guard laughed out loud. "You don't know? This was a shooting star."

The strange thing out here was a boulder in the ground. A great, big round boulder, solid stone, as wide as Ria could stretch her arms. All of the earth immediately around it was cracked and disturbed. Yet despite it being right in the middle of the city, nothing farther than ten feet from it was damaged. Even the Gildergreen was perfectly fine. The only thing it had done was land in Whiterun and crush the very small area that it had directly struck.

It had landed on the platform of paved stone on the Dragonsreach-facing edge of the square. Where the shrine to Talos had been.

"Aye, I saw the whole thing," the guard commented. "We all did. That Heimskr fellow was standing there screaming about Talos like always, and then all of a sudden, he was just screaming and running for his life. And then that thing hit the ground where he'd been."

Erik scratched his head. "So… What you're saying is, Talos got tired of listening to Heimskr."

Ria basically died laughing right then and there. This was perfect. The Divines were good. They were good, they were just, they were perfect. She was so completely dead. She had to lean on Erik to keep from falling over, she was laughing so hard.

She'd barely pulled herself together even by the time they were walking into Dragonsreach. It'd been a little over a week, but here they were, crossing the bridge, opening the doors, same as before. All right, then. It was time to be serious.

The last time she'd come by, it'd been raining outside, and everything had felt really quiet and cozy. Today was different. Sunlight was shining in through the rafters, people were all gathered at the long tables for breakfast, everything just felt really full of life. Ria couldn't help but smile as she stepped inside. But she still wiped her feet first, rain or no. This was Dragonsreach here. Being serious meant being respectful.

Farengar was very easy to find, mainly because he was the only person in the entire room wearing a hooded robe. He was sitting by the near end of the right table, having his fill of food along with everyone else. It was kind of strange, seeing him again. It felt like it'd been only yesterday that they'd last spoken, and in the intervening time… a whole bunch of strange things had happened. He'd probably sympathize, though. Strange things were sort of his profession.

He turned and looked at the two Companions right as they were coming up the short little staircase to the hall's rear half. Where the tables were, of course. Immediately, he put down his fork and knife, and stood up from his seat. None of the others at the table seemed to pay any notice. "You're back," he said. "I take it you succeeded in your task?"

"You know, if you want to finish your food, that's all right," Erik said.

"Good point." Farengar picked up his flatware again, dropped them onto his plate, then picked up the plate and his goblet in either hand. Everyone still ignored him. Maybe they were used to this. "Let's go to my laboratory to talk."

With that, the three of them circled around the near end of the table, and headed over to Farengar's room. It looked different than last time. There were a couple of chairs in front of the counter, for one thing. And that stack of papers was still there, except a good bit taller now, with a big soul gem sitting on top, like that was a normal thing to use as a paperweight.

Farengar took a seat behind the counter, like usual, and set his breakfast back down. "I could see about getting you two some food as well, if you like."

"Oh, it's all right, we already broke our fast," Ria said, as she and Erik sat down as well. "Jorrvaskr wouldn't be what it is without all the great piles of delicious food everywhere. Thank you, though."

"I see you don't feel like dragging chairs from the main hall anymore," Erik remarked, tapping the side of his seat for emphasis.

The court wizard was in the middle of a mouthful of food when Erik finished his sentence. He took a moment to chew and swallow before trying to answer. "Mmm. I've been entertaining a fair few visitors recently. It made sense to start keeping some chairs in here. Turns out that when there's magic going crazy everywhere, people want to consult the professional mage fellow. But, uh… here I am, consulting _you_ , my warrior friends. What do you have for me?"

"The Dragonborn became extremely powerful somehow and used his power to destroy most of the Daedra," Ria said. "And, uh… That's not actually why the stars are frozen, that's someone else's doing, but it's why there's magic everywhere now."

Surprisingly, Farengar wasn't actually surprised. He just nodded. "Makes sense. On a couple levels, I mean. Oblivion's between Mundus and Aetherius, in the layers of the Aurbis, and Aetherius is where all our magic comes from. It also might explain why Nocturnal's been playing so nice, if the Dragonborn's in charge of the whole Aurbis right now. Or… at least, in a position to destroy any immortal beings he wants. I imagine if he were really all-powerful right now, he'd be doing much more ambitious things."

Ria looked at him blankly. "Like… what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Undoing the limits of mortality, making people stop being evil, how am I supposed to guess? I'm not all-powerful." Farengar shrugged with one arm, and took a sip of his drink with the other. "… Good work, though. I'll see to it that your payment is sent ahead to Jorrvaskr."

So he wasn't going to hand it to them on the spot, like Proventus had. That was fine. Ria wasn't desperate for gold right then anyway. She smiled and nodded politely. "Thank you. I'm sure they'll appreciate it."

It occurred to her that Farengar's little imagined accomplishments for the Dragonborn were the same as what Odahviing had said. The Dragonborn mustn't have been too overly powerful at the moment, or he'd be using his power to make the entire world as much of an unending beauty as all of Aetherius.

"Well, I'm not done," Farengar replied, a bit wryly. "I have something extra for you now. Because we Nords are obsessed with jewelry and armor as tokens of value. Here."

And then he reached into his robes, and casually tossed a tangled mass of silver chain onto the counter. There were a couple of jeweled discs in there. Ria's eyes went wide. The jewels on them were rubies, she was fairly sure. These must have been worth four, five hundred septims apiece.

Erik asked, "Did… did you make these for us?"

"I got a little bored the other day," he said, by way of explanation. "Decided to do a little enchanting."

Ria leaned forward and picked up both of the discs. The chains trailed through her fingers a bit, but it wasn't as tangled as it looked. She just dropped one of them into Erik's hand. "Thank you," she said again, but this time it was with a bit more… a bit more awe, maybe. "What do they do?"

Farengar was in the middle of eating more of his food. He set down his fork again and smiled at her. "Well, if I made them right, they'll ward off the effects of cold, and lighten the load of anything you carry. I thought it might help with the sort of things you warriors do."

"You're damn right," Erik said, and then put the necklace on without another word. Ria followed suit.

It was a strange feeling, when she did. It wasn't exactly that she felt like she'd become stronger. But she was wearing heavy steel armor, as always, and when the necklace went on, it felt… lighter. So did all of her gear, in fact. It wasn't huge, it wasn't like her armor was made of feathers now, but she could already tell this would make her life far easier.

If it was warding off the cold as well, Ria wouldn't have known. It was quite warm in here already. But it was really something, to think that she was wearing an enchanted item with two effects. Those just didn't happen. "How much would you say this necklace is worth?"

Farengar made a skeptical weighing gesture with both hands. "Mmm, depends on a lot of things. If I were selling it to, I don't know, Belethor or someone, I'd rate it at maybe three thousand gold—"

"THREE—" Erik caught himself and lowered his voice. " _Three thousand?!_ " He hissed the words absolutely frantically. He was reaching back up to his neck, fumbling to examine the disc, like somehow it'd changed since he last looked at it. "You're just giving this to us?"

He had a point. That was amazingly valuable. The two necklaces together might've been enough to buy Breezehome, if it was for sale. Which it wasn't, but still. By that judgment, what Ria was wearing around her neck now was worth more than everything else she owned.

"Well, it cost me far less to actually make," Farengar said, indifferent to Erik's very forceful reaction. "I used greater soul gems, so that cost me five hundred or so apiece, and another… three hundred, maybe, for the necklaces, they came at a good rate. The rest is just sensibility. One soul gem and one mundane item for two effects—that's obviously cheaper than two soul gems and two mundane items for the same. Normally you'd probably split these effects across a necklace and a ring, that is. But if I did that, I'd be selling them for a total of more like four thousand. So the three thousand is a big mark-up, but for any buyers, they're still coming out far ahead."

Ria slumped back in her seat and ran a hand over her head. Apparently, to Farengar, this was just another little issue of trade. Just putting two effects in one necklace somehow, no big deal. This setup was obviously working amazingly well for Farengar, too, if he saw no issue with just handing over a couple of hugely expensive items as a little extra bonus pay.

Before she could say anything about it, Erik asked, "What are you doing with all your gold from this?"

Farengar drained the last of the contents of his goblet, then set it down with a sigh. "Well, I've been giving a good deal of my profits to the Jarl, because running a hold is expensive and I should be earning my keep somehow. But I've also been using it to fund my own research. Which, at the moment, is really consumed by this business with the stars." He gestured to the stack of papers on his counter. "Like so. I've been sleeping at some odd times of day lately."

At first, Ria sort of wanted to ask more about the star thing. It just seemed important, in one of those weird magical ways. Usually what happened with that was that something strange would happen, and it wouldn't seem to have anything to do with anything, and then it'd turn out to be actually really important in some incredible out-of-nowhere way. But then she realized that there was something else to ask about. And it was definitely, absolutely important already.

"Something happened on our journey to High Hrothgar," she said, suddenly. "I'm wondering if you might know something about it."

"Go on," Farengar said, then folded his fingers in his lap and smiled expectantly. This was now story time with the Companions.

"Well, we took a shortcut up to High Hrothgar. Sort of a lesser-traveled road. On the way, we were attacked by a wispmother."

Farengar sat up and brightened suddenly. "Oh, wow! That's rare. I have all kinds of theories about those creatures. Lucky of you to have survived the encounter. Continue, please."

"That's exactly the thing, Farengar. It wasn't lucky at all. We were defeated. Erik here was out cold, and I was being set upon by all her wisps at once. And then… some kind of spirit intervened. I saw the sky above me change. It was full of these swirling clouds, all pink and purple, all turning around a sun at the very ceiling of the sky. It wasn't our sun at all. And then the wispmother and her wisps alike just froze in place, and… they all got cut apart. By nothing. And then it was over, and they were all dead."

As she spoke, Farengar's face set into a thoughtful sort of frown. It was a few seconds before he replied. He was shaking his head slowly. "No. … No, I haven't heard of anything like that ever happening before. But I can guess. Aetherius is coming through to Mundus in greater force than it ever has in the history of all Time. So I guess that might've been your Nord friends in Sovngarde lending you a hand."

"That's what I thought, aye," Ria nodded. "Nice of them, too, I'm not even a Nord."

Erik chimed in, "We're not that bigoted, you know. Imperials can be as valiant and honorable as any other warriors. Of course, if you were, say, a high elf, we'd have to kill you for being a Thalmor spy."

"What kind of Thalmor officer would send a high elf to infiltrate a Nordic guild's ranks?"

"Don't question our proud Nordic tradition," Erik said sharply.

Farengar snorted.

"Oh, hey, Farengar, I had a question," Ria said, trying to bring herself back to reality a little. "Is it true what happened with Heimskr?"

"No, we just put the giant boulder there as a practical joke," the court wizard replied flatly. "I don't know, I was here in Dragonsreach at the time. But it sounded perfect. Personally, I'm just glad the falling rock didn't turn the hill of Whiterun into a great big crater. Because it entireely could have. That's the kind of thing this whole issue with the stars might give us."

The entire city of Whiterun, being flattened into a crater. That was… surprisingly easy to imagine. And all kinds of unsettling. Ria frowned. "I hope the Divines don't hate us that much."

"Ahh, I'm sure they don't," Farengar said airily. "But it might not be up to them. They can't possibly be controlling all of this. Especially not with your… mystery entity freezing the stars up. This is going to take much more research, I'm sure. I suppose you'll want to learn more about your Aetherial secret admirer, but that's more your concern than mine."

There was a brief pause. Ria and Erik glanced at each other.

Erik looked back and asked, "Any pointers?"

"What, do you mean like, any convenient ancient ruins for you to fight through to find your next clue?" Farengar flashed him a grin. "I, ah… I don't know, really. There's not much to go on. You need to find questions more than you need to find answers. Just keep doing your Nordic-warrior thing, I suppose. If your magical friend—or friends, I don't know—if they want to show you more, they will."

"We could get you some spriggan sap for your magical tree-powered attunement array," Ria said, completely straight-faced.

Farengar's grin came back, wider. "Yeeees. Thank you. I suppose there's one other thing, as long as… uh…"

He was looking up at someone behind them. Ria turned around in her seat.

There was a dark elf standing in the doorway. Female, kind of short, just generally slight in build. She was wearing College robes, but with the hood down. Was she an apprentice or a master mage? Ria couldn't guess. She had no idea how old this person was. Elves were difficult like that.

"Hello," Farengar said. "Can we help you?"

The dark elf put her hands on her hips. "You're the court wizard, I presume?"

"At your service. What can I help you with? … I presume something magical?" It was remarkable, how Farengar kept up such an approachable attitude all the time.

At that moment, four city guards walked in past them all, carrying between them a big wooden chest wrapped in ropes. They set it down in the open part of the room to the left of the counter.

"We're setting up a device for the Dragonborn," the dark elf said. "The Jarl has already approved it. We need to put it in the keep, and he suggested you might be able to keep an eye on it."

"… Sure, fine." Farengar looked at the guards unwrapping the ropes, and then went back to finishing his breakfast.

Ria stood up and looked at the mage. "Excuse me, uh… who are you, exactly?"

"Zaryth Velani," the dark elf said smoothly. "I'm guessing you haven't heard of me."

"You're a good guesser."

The dark elf, Zaryth, smirked a little and folded her arms. "Well, I'm here on behalf of the interests of Blackreach Hold, and Whiterun Hold by extension. With any luck, this installation will proceed quickly, and I can be on my way."

Behind Ria, Farengar's voice asked, "So what exactly is this?"

"Oh, just a propylon teleportation column," Zaryth said breezily. The guards were opening up the chest now, and pulling away some straw padding inside. She looked to them and said, "All right, now take it out and find a spot for it. Try and keep a little distance between it and the walls. And make sure it's facing the right way."

Two of the guards reached into the chest and, on a count of three, lifted out a very strange-looking little column. It was no bigger than a pasture fence post, but it was made of a smooth, bizarrely shiny sort of stone that was somehow blue, purple and cyan all at once. The ends were capped with different shaped attachments, made unmistakably of dwarven metal. Definitely a Blackreach thing, then. The guards were lugging it over to the side and setting down the bigger of the metal ends on the floor.

This was certainly a surprise. By the sound of it, this column thing was here to allow people to teleport to and from Blackreach, but Ria guessed that not just anyone would be able to use it. It had to have some extra restriction built in, or else any regular possible-Thalmor-spy could walk up and use it to get inside the cavern.

Farengar said, "I didn't hear about this from the Jarl. You sure he's going to be all right with this? Because I don't want him to come in here and say, 'Farengar, what's this shiny magic thing doing here, this is unknown magic and therefore scares me, never show your face in Whiterun again.'"

"Secrecy," Zaryth replied, like that was all she needed to say. Then she undid that by adding, "We had some correspondence about it already, but this is strategically important enough that we didn't want to unveil it ahead of time. This column will allow the Black Machine to teleport straight from their garrison into Whiterun."

"Sounds like we're putting a lot of trust in the Black Machine," said Erik.

Zaryth's answer came so quickly and smoothly, it sounded like she was reading it off of a card. "No more than you've been doing so far. The Black Machine is designed in such a way that no one can really stop it anyway. This is just in case you get attacked."

"That happened to us already," Ria commented. "The Battle over Whiterun. Farengar here had to invoke Nocturnal's power to send everyone in the entire city into Oblivion for a few weeks."

"Oh, is _that_ what happened?" The dark elf raised her eyebrows. "I heard about that. We sent some soldiers to come defend Whiterun, but they must have come a bit late. They found an empty city. It'll be better now, in any case. You could have twenty Black Gears here inside a minute."

The court wizard yawned. At least he covered his mouth. "Uh… Mmm. Well, if you want anything dual-enchanted, just let me know and I'll throw it your way. Perks of having one's soul belong to a Daedric Prince. Might take an hour or two, my morning's pretty free."

Damn it, now Ria needed to yawn too.

Zaryth looked like she was going to say something skeptical, but then she stopped. "Did… you just say dual-enchanted?"

"Two effects, one item. I just gave these two some necklaces for, uh… resisting frost and increasing their carrying limit. If you want one, I'll give you it as soon as I've made it."

Ria couldn't help but smile sheepishly. She was getting talked about just now in a conversation between mages. She probably shouldn't have felt so important from that, but honestly, watching this was just sort of fascinating. It felt like she was a little girl at the grown-up table. Just standing here, watching people talk all seriously about stuff she barely understood. It was nice to get to matter a little.

Zaryth didn't seem thrilled. "Well, thank you, but I don't think I brought enough gold with me for that."

"Eh. I'm not above gifts. You're a nice person, I'm sure."

Now she just squinted at him. "… You remind me of Divayth Fyr."

"You remind me of bzh zhgububgm," Farengar said, leaning back lazily in his seat. Actually, he was just watching the guards work. They were very carefully lining up the column with the floor, it looked like.

Zaryth's amount of thrill was not increasing. "… Are you trying to make up a Dwemer name?"

"No, I was saying complete nonsense words. You suppose this might tell us something about the Dwemer?"

Ria raised a hand hesitantly. "Excuse me, uh… Who's Divayth Fyr?"

"Oh for holy Azura you have to be…" The dark elf buried her face in her hands for a second, and let out a long sigh through her palms. She looked up with a completely peeved scowl. "Divayth Fyr was one of the greatest mages in the history of Tamriel. He lived for four _thousand_ years, and accomplished more in the pursuit of magical study than some entire civilizations. He had so many valuable artifacts collected in his home that he made a game out of letting people come in and try to steal them. During the Oblivion Crisis, he played a critical role in the defense of Morrowind, and I refuse to believe that the Red Year actually killed him. If you have to ask what the Red Year is, I'm going to have to ask you to start eating more books for breakfast."

Well, that was a little embarrassing. Or… extremely so. This elf was giving her such a withering look right now.

Actually, Ria wasn't sure if she had to ask what the Red Year was. She knew it was a bad thing that happened in Morrowind, and it was why the dark elves had been fleeing into Skyrim. But at the moment, that didn't really matter, because she felt more inclined to just throw herself off a cliff and hope everyone forgot she existed. She sort of slunk off to the side without saying anything.

Fortunately, whatever the guards were doing captured Zaryth's whole attention, so she wasn't talking to Ria anymore. It seemed to be keeping Farengar busy too. While all that was going on, Erik came over by Ria's side and gave her a look over, then said, "For what it's worth, I didn't know who Divayth Fyr was either."

"I completely do not belong in here for this," Ria muttered, not bothering to hide her dejection. "We're done here anyway. We might want to leave."

Erik glanced over his shoulder. The guards were using some kind of drilling tool to fix the fancy pillar to the wooden floorboards. "Well, I don't know about that. Farengar did say there was something else he'd wanted to talk to us about."

"We can come back later. Right now, we're wasting our time." Fortunately, the arch to the main hall was big enough that Ria got through without having to edge past anyone. She was about ready to go… be somewhere else, pretty much.

Then Farengar's voice called out, "Hey, Ria!"

Or maybe not, then. She stopped and turned around slowly. Everyone was still there like before. Thankfully, Zaryth had moved on to supervising the column thing more. "Yes, Farengar?"

"I had one other question for you. Come here, would you? I don't want to shout."

Ria walked back into the laboratory space reluctantly. People were finishing with their breakfasts and leaving the main hall, at this point, so it was a lot quieter in here.

"You talked to a dragon," Farengar said. "Which dragon was it? What was their name?"

Now, this was something she knew the answer to. It was hard not to, given the dragon's history in Whiterun. "Uh… Odahviing. And we didn't just talk to him, we rode him in yesterday."

The court wizard's face brightened quite a bit at the news. "Oh, huh! How about that. Must have been quite an experience for you."

"Would've been better if we hadn't been all freezing and exhausted," Ria replied, though not really unhappily. "He was an interesting conversation partner. The news of the Circle's demise really struck him. Which makes sense, I think, given his history with them."

There was a loud grinding noise over to the left. The guards had started drilling some metal rods right into the floor, through the base of the column, to secure it in place. Little wood shavings were spiraling out and falling everywhere.

Farengar, of course, ignored that and continued talking. "Ahh, yes, he helped them out that one time, didn't he? Poor fellow." He frowned a little, staring down at his counter for a second, before looking back up with a contemplative sort of gaze. "If you see him again, give him my regards, would you? I'm sure he remembers me. I was around when he got trapped on the porch."

Ria gave some polite response, absently. It was very strange, talking about a dragon as though they were just another person. At this rate, Odahviing was going to want to join in on the evening revelry in Jorrvaskr. That'd be good. He'd probably have some really great stories to tell them, too.

With a bit of a start, she realized that Zaryth was standing there and watching her. Maybe this conversation was actually interesting, for a mage such as herself. Dragons were terribly rare to be around. Most people only knew about them secondhand, and from seeing them flying through the sky far away. It was a whole different thing to get to actually talk to one.

"I don't suppose you know all about dragons, too," Ria said dryly.

Zaryth raised her eyebrows. "As a matter of fact, I do. I got here on the back of the dragon Nosqoriik. He's waiting for me up on the Great Porch."

Ria threw her hands in the air and spat a whole string of obscenities. Of course this elf was already in with dragons. Just, of course. It even made total sense, if she was from Blackreach. Ria was still going completely mad here.

"I hope he hasn't been locked up or anything," Farengar commented.

Erik spoke up, "Actually, Ria, why don't we go talk to him? I'm sure we'd be more interesting than the Whiterun city guard."

"Why not," Ria said flatly. Anything to get her out of this lab, really. She waved goodbye to Farengar on the way out, and that was that.

The way through Dragonsreach's upper levels wasn't terribly long. Most of the keep was behind the main hall, up a fairly tall staircase in the back right corner. Ria didn't make a point of ever going up here, but Erik seemed to know the way to the porch already, so she just followed along.

It really wasn't that long, though. Within a minute's time, Erik was pushing open the double doors to the Dragonsreach Great Porch, and Ria was coming out after him.

This area was dragon-sized. It was as simple as that. Unlike most of Dragonsreach, which was made mainly out of wood, the porch was made entirely from stone—no guesses why. Most of it was an enclosed sort of space, with left and right walls far apart and a ceiling high up, high enough for there to be balconies running along either wall. It was like Dragonsreach's main hall, if it were for dragons instead of mortals. Ria could even see the trapping device they'd used on Odahviing, a big curved restraint of wood and metal up at the ceiling, hanging on chains that ran down to some mechanisms by the walls. Lastly, but most importantly, there was no far wall to the room. There was just an open, semicircular platform out in the sunlight, with a beautiful view of Skyrim beyond it.

And, of course, there was also a dragon. Just sitting there out on the semicircle, surrounded by a few city guards. Talking to them, apparently. This one obviously wasn't Odahviing. His scales were a brilliant, metallic blue and silver, where Odahviing had been red and gray. More than that, this dragon just looked sleeker. He still had all the horns and spikes and such, but they were all smooth and slim and almost kind of graceful-looking. Even with the dragon doing nothing but sitting there, he looked like he'd be a wonder to witness in the air.

Ria and Erik walked briskly through the porch. This was definitely worth their time. As she approached, Ria began to overhear the conversation the dragon was having with the guards.

At the moment, one of the guards was talking. "… now, from what I've heard, the dragons don't actually need to eat. So how does that work?"

"You are correct." The dragon had an amazingly deep rumbling voice. It shouldn't have been a surprise after Odahviing, but it still sort of was anyway. "When we feed, what our physical forms can absorb is added to our form, and what cannot is simply sent back as it came. But never has a dovah starved to death, as your kind may. At most, it may aid in our bodily healing—" Then he stopped, and looked at the two Companions coming up.

"Hello, Nosqoriik," Ria said brightly.

"Good morning," the dragon offered. The guards all turned around and looked too. "May I be of assistance to you?"

One of the guards gave them a wave. "Hail, Companions. Here to talk to the big scary dragon?"

Ria nodded as she came up between the guards. Up close, Nosqoriik did look a lot like Odahviing. Particularly in that when they were looking at each other, all Ria could really see was his nose. "Aye, basically that. Just yesterday, Erik and I here rode Odahviing into Whiterun."

Nosqoriik made a deep, thoughtful dragon-noise. "Mmmm. Yes, I have heard plenty of Odahviing's experiences in the company of mortals. I trust he treated you well, Companions."

"He certainly did," Ria smiled. "I'm, uh… I'm Ria, by the way. That's my name."

"And I'm Erik," her Shield-Brother added.

The dragon gave them each a careful, appraising look, one at a time. "Ria … and Erik. Well met, as you would say."

Erik asked, "Were you in the Battle over Whiterun?"

"Indeed I was. There are many lesser dovah throughout Skyrim, but only nine now whose names carry enough power to have brought them onto either side of Morokei's schism. Seven of us were there that day—three, including myself, were loyal to the Dovahkiin, and four opposed us. Perhaps it would have been an even fight in the end, but when Morokei appeared, there was no choice but to flee."

"Luckily, Whiterun was empty by then," one of the guards commented. Actually, that was the same guard who'd been asking about how dragons eat.

"Aye," Ria nodded. "But you did buy us enough time to get it that way. Thank you for that."

Nosqoriik made another deep noise and rolled back on his legs a bit. "Think nothing of it. I did with myself as any should have done. Whiterun may be home to this accursed prison, but it is a city, and its people deserve life."

What a kind thing for a dragon to say. Except Ria was sort of wincing at the 'accursed prison' bit. She realized, a bit suddenly, that Nosqoriik was looking at the place where not only had Odahviing been briefly captured, but long before that, Numinex had been imprisoned until his death. This must have been all rather disturbing for him.

Another guard said, "Well, with any luck, Dragonsreach will never need to see use as a prison for your kind ever again, Nosqoriik. It's like they say. Nid lein kos mahfaeraak."

Everyone just sort of stopped. The first guard turned and looked at him. "Tor, what are you doing?"

"Horrendously butchering the dragon language, probably," the second guard muttered. "They probably don't actually say that."

"A wise insight, mortal," Nosqoriik said, turning to look at the second guard. The one apparently named Tor. "You speak the tongue of the dovah?"

"Only a little," Tor said, laughing with obvious nervousness. "I used to read a lot of texts in Dovahzul. I never thought I'd actually speak to a dragon. Uh…" He looked around at the others. "What I was trying to say was that nothing has to be forever."

There was a thought, all right. Nothing had to be forever. Ria looked around the Great Porch slowly. This place had only ever been known as a prison for dragons. Now a dragon was here as a guest. If this could change, what else could too?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the doors opening again. It was Zaryth. She was striding out with two guards carrying that wooden chest behind her. It looked like they'd wrapped it up in all its ropes again.

Immediately, the guards around Nosqoriik began to disperse. The one called Tor lingered long enough to say, "It's been an honor meeting you, Nosqoriik," before walking off as well.

Ria and Erik exchanged a glance. The conversation had been good while it lasted.

Zaryth walked up to them both, and squinted suspiciously. "What… how did you two get out here?"

"We walked," Erik said.

"And then opened some doors," Ria added. "Very technical. You might not understand."

The dark elf made an exasperated noise and walked past them to Nosqoriik. "Let's get out of here." She was talking to the dragon now, not Ria. "It's installed and working. No sense in staying."

As the guards came up with the chest, the two Companions started off towards the doors. They didn't even need to say anything to each other. They were done in Dragonsreach, it was time to move on, simple as that.

Today had certainly yielded quite the experience. But for all that'd happened, Ria found herself thinking of just one thing. One little moment. It was something Farengar had said. They didn't need to find answers, he'd told them—they needed to find questions. Frankly, that sounded a lot harder to do.

Of course, then he'd gone on to suggest that they keep doing their work as warriors. No advice could have been more truly welcome.


	28. Zaryth 5

Sundas, 2:21 PM, 24th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Silent City

The words filled Zaryth with a sudden, frantic terror, the likes of which she had felt only a tiny few times in her life. She heard them, and she realized that for once—for all her expertise, all her skill as a mage and a scholar—she truly, honestly didn't know what to do.

There was simply no way to handle this. If there were ever a time where panic was truly called for, it was at the sound of these words being spoken.

"I'm not sure if Thorald told you this, but his birthday is on the 29th."

"What?!" Zaryth very nearly jumped out of her seat. Here she was, sitting with the Breton warrior-mage, Echallos, having a nice conversation, and it had just been completely stopped in its tracks. "But I already gave him the—how can he—"

"Calm down, I'm sure he'll be happy even if you just wish him a good day for it." Echallos, somehow, was unfazed. He was using that mysterious Black Machine poise. That secret energy that the Dragonborn's soldiers had inside them, that made them completely calm and impervious to everything they ever experienced.

As it happened, the Dunmer did not share Echallos' inexplicable detachment from reality. "This isn't fair! Five days' notice? How am I supposed to handle this properly when no one told me any sooner? Now I'm going to have to just stop everything and figure it out, thank you _so much_ , Echallos, you're a real help—"

"Would you keep your voice down?"

They were in a fairly quiet environment, as it happened. It was someplace Zaryth had never been before—a small stone balcony, semicircular in shape, on the side of one of the towers of the debate hall. It overlooked the courtyard from so high up that Zaryth could see the topmost point of the sun-orb, where it met the cable suspending it in place. Beyond it was a thrilling view of the Silent City, the buildings all neatly laid out in radial patterns below, and beyond that were the faint shapes of Blackreach's distant features, barely visible through the fog.

The two of them were sitting on a padded wooden bench that had been set up here for seemingly no particular purpose. A low railing of Dwemer metal had been attached to the balcony's edge—a recent addition, to be sure, between its crudely geometric construction and the fact that the Dwemer had abhorred such safety measures. It was still probably best of her to not accidentally jump out of her seat at any point.

Allegedly, Echallos came up here sometimes when he wanted to think. And his afternoon wasn't filled with Black Machinery for once—he wasn't even wearing his armor, that was quite a mercy—so he'd invited Zaryth to come up with him. In any case, Zaryth supposed it was true that her voice would carry well from up here. Best to watch her volume, then.

"You're a _real help_ ," she hissed, with a seething glare for emphasis.

"Well, I imagine if Thorald wanted to make a big deal out of it, he would've told you a while ago. I guess he didn't, though?"

That was not helpful. Zaryth did her best not to visibly cringe. If she was going to be completely honest with herself—a practice which, in recent weeks, was becoming bizarrely and frighteningly easy—she wasn't at all surprised that Thorald had neglected to point out the upcoming date. But that was exactly the problem.

Perhaps Echallos observed some subtle reaction of hers, because instead of waiting for her to speak, he simply went on: "It's really kind of you to be so interested in making the day good for him. If you want to get him some kind of gift, I'd be happy to talk ideas. I mean, I invited you up here mainly because I wanted to hear your thoughts about him, so that's fine."

A strange motive, Zaryth thought. But she had learned not to question such things in Blackreach. Recently, she had visited the cities of Solitude, Markarth, Whiterun and Windhelm in near-daily succession, for the purpose of establishing her propylon network, and in each city she had received essentially the same response from the locals. It was polite, sometimes—a respect afforded to her, no doubt, because of her project's usefulness and her supposed affiliation with the Dragonborn—but never was it friendly. Compared to Blackreach, that made a fair deal of sense. Here, people simply expressed interest in each other seemingly at random.

"He is very gentle," Zaryth remarked idly. "It's a great contrast to what I'd expect from any warrior of any race, let alone a Nord such as himself."

Echallos nodded appreciatively. "That's good to hear, though. I think he likes that you don't make a big deal out of the fact that he's a soldier. If you're gonna give him something for his birthday, just… yeah. He was reading to us from your book the other day."

"My book?" She actually required a moment to realize what Echallos was referring to. It had never really been _her_ book, she had thought. It was simply a Nordic text that had been in her possession. "Ahh, yes. Well, I suppose _some_ sort of literature might hold the attention of those around here—"

"Oh, come on," Echallos cut her off. "It's nice of him to share. And people do actually like those stories. You ever try talking about anyone _without_ throwing in some kind of insult? No one's inclined to do the same to you."

"Not all of you are Thorald," Zaryth said flatly, without really thinking about it. Until afterward, at least. She wasn't entirely sure what point she had just tried to make.

The Breton gave her a silent, sidelong look. A few seconds passed by.

"… _What?_ "

Somehow, he was still as calm as ever. But his voice had a definite firmness to it now. "There are over five hundred people in Blackreach, Zaryth. I'm pretty sure most all of them would be happy to treat you nicely if you let them. The main interesting thing about Thorald is that he's been treating you nicely even though, as far as I can tell, at first you were trying _not_ to let him."

Zaryth opened her mouth silently. As if she'd needed more to struggle with today. First Echallos had hit her with a five-day notice on an important occasion, and now her entire attitude was being questioned. Was she supposed to feel guilty for how she'd treated Thorald so far?

"I gave him the book, though," she said, a little lamely.

Echallos reacted with little more than his typical poise. He might have raised his eyebrows for a split second, maybe. "Well, I said at first. You two are obviously fine now. Don't—really, don't take it hard. The point is, there are a lot of Nords down here, aaand they probably wouldn't appreciate you insulting their intelligence."

That gave Zaryth a bit of pause. She hadn't expected Echallos to take note of such a specific little remark. She frowned. "Do they even care?"

In response, he gave her that silent look again.

"Fine, whatever you say," Zaryth grumbled, looking back out over the sun-orb ahead of her. Ancient archaeology was always so much less judgmental than people were. The worst it ever tried to do was murder her with mechanized death traps, and it tried that on everyone.

This really was a peculiar conversation, even as the ones in Blackreach tended to go. As Zaryth understood it, yesterday Thorald and a few other soldiers had gone and searched through Raldbthar for some secret reason, and today they were all taking a break from their training. There was supposedly another, larger force of Black Gears going through the ruin and mopping it all up at that very moment.

But despite Zaryth's pleas, Kamian had denied her the chance to accompany this second group, because it wasn't safe in Raldbthar yet—apparently, in ways beyond the typical perils of Dwemer ruins in Skyrim, a point which had been repeatedly stressed to her. The most recent account of events was that a giant, fast-growing nirnroot had inexplicably sprouted out of the floor, and somehow caused a cave-in that had nearly (but thankfully not actually) cost Thorald and Echallos their lives.

Personally, the Dunmer thought that such a happening was worth her immediate investigation, but perhaps it _was_ best that someone else go first. Illusion magic was little use against catastrophic environmental hazards. She had already learned that lesson quite some time ago.

There were plenty of projects for her to work on in the meantime, in any case. Supposedly, Thorald had succeeded in capturing a Dwemer spider intact for her to examine, so she had needed to prepare a space in which to work on it. And, of course, there was the matter of her mushroom project. But that could wait.

She asked, "Don't you ever get afraid?"

"What?" Echallos blinked. He might have been busy thinking about something else.

"I know Nord warriors like to act all boisterous and aggressive about their warrior business, and it always seemed to me like… like that's just how they deal with the fact that what they do will probably end up killing them. The people down here don't really do that, though. You're all very serious. So how do you do it?"

The Breton nodded slowly, contemplating the question. It was always interesting to see people like himself sitting and thinking about things. Sometimes they came up with things Zaryth might not have done herself. "It's tricky," he said, eventually. "The Dragonborn always tried to make the point to us that we're all mortal, and we can't act like our fancy toys make us invincible. Even the magic immunity only gets so far—"

"Immunity? Don't you mean resistance?" Zaryth was familiar with enchanting. She had already suspected that the Black Machine was equipped with a variety of enchanted gear, and magic resistance made sense for them. Still, it was an odd wording.

But Echallos didn't correct himself. "No, I don't. Well, I mean, I guess that might be the nature of the enchant to begin with, but every one of us has a ring of 100 percent magic resistance." He proceeded to hold up his right hand—on the index finger, he was wearing a smooth Dwemer metal ring, engraved with his Black Machine number at regular intervals around the outside. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"

Zaryth stared at the ring for a long, silent moment. "That's impossible."

Or at least, that was the idea she spoke aloud. The moment she heard the words '100 percent', she realized someone had gone through the exact same thought process she was having now: No resistance enchant, regardless of the skill of the enchanter or the size of the soul gem, could reach a true 100-percent immunity. That would've been doubly true for magic, which was far weaker in magnitude than the others. And yet here Echallos was, showing her a ring that potentially defied every relevant rule she knew.

Did Thorald have one of these? Had she never noticed? It was so rare, for him to appear without any of his armor on. But it felt like he would've said something about this, if it were true. Shouldn't he have? He wasn't the secret-keeping type. He was so sincere, and well-meaning. It wouldn't make sense for him to have such an impossible edge over Zaryth without saying anything about it.

"Well," Echallos shrugged, "if you don't believe me, feel free to cast a spell on me. Destruction, illusion, alteration, whatever. I'm just gonna keep sitting here and talking to you. It won't even hurt, whatever it is, more's the pity."

Zaryth wordlessly fired up a paralysis spell and tossed it at Echallos' face. He _did_ ask.

They were only a couple feet apart from each other, so practically the instant the green bolt of magic left her hand, it had already flashed through the air and burst against Echallos' front. Normally, this would be the point where the Breton would go stiff and probably tip onto his back or something.

But he just kept sitting there, looking at her expectantly. "… What even _was_ that spell?"

"Paralysis," Zaryth said, unable to hide her exasperation. "Seriously? You don't even feel a little… a little sluggish or anything?"

Echallos shrugged again. "I've sat through firestorm spells before. Try not to set the bench on fire, though. The… mundane secondary fire from that might eventually hurt me."

Zaryth replied by hitting his face with a lightning bolt spell. He didn't even flinch. He was still just sitting there. The Dunmer threw her hands in the air. "Come on, this isn't even fair! What is this!"

"100 percent magic resistance," Echallos said blankly. But then he put his hands together, and did something completely unprecedented—he pulled the ring off of his finger, and held it out for Zaryth to take. "Try it on, I'll show you."

He'd show her. He was offering to let her take on his apparent immunity to magic. More to the point, he was removing his own immunity in the process. Did he truly trust Zaryth that much?

He was holding out the ring still, looking at her expectantly. Evidently, the answer was yes.

As it happened, Zaryth was already wearing a magic ring, but that was easy enough to remove as well. Echallos' ring was too wide for her index finger, so she put it on her thumb instead. It didn't particularly matter which digit was used for these things—generally, if multiple enchanted rings were worn, only the first one put on retained its effect.

In any case, this Dwemer metal ring was easy enough to wear. The metal was pleasantly warm on her skin. She fitted it in place, pocketed the first ring, and then looked at Echallos blankly. "It doesn't feel very different—"

Then Echallos unleashed a frostbite spell at her.

It was uncanny. He had his hand out just a few inches from her chest, and was covering her whole front in a howling white mist. She should have been in horrendous pain right then, and going numb shortly after. But while she was clearly seeing and hearing the spell taking place, she felt nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps a very slight coolness in the surrounding air, as the frostbite spell lowered the ambient temperature. But the spell went on for a few whole seconds, and it didn't do so much as sting.

And then, just like that, the spell ended, and Echallos lowered his hand. He was giving Zaryth quite the knowing smile. "Immunity," he said. "See?"

Zaryth couldn't help but laugh out loud. She ran a hand over her front—no ice had accumulated on her robes, despite her expectations, and… she wasn't hurt. Not in the slightest. "… Did you say 'more's the pity' earlier?"

Echallos blinked in surprise. "What? Oh, uh, I guess so. I dunno, getting hit with spells isn't _that_ fun."

"No, it's not. Why would you even want that?"

"Eh, it's what it is," he said airily. "A little sting can put some _life_ into an encounter, by what I know. Same goes for regular fighting, really. It doesn't really count if they don't get a few hits in. I mean, I do have healing spells, on top of the usual potions. It's not like I have a death wish here."

This was just making Zaryth laugh even more. She'd met a fair few warriors in her time, and some had certainly shown quite the disregard for their own safety, but none of them had actually taken an interest in getting hurt themselves. Maybe it made him more effective at his job. "That's—that's really something. The Black Machine's way of doing things must be a little guarded for your tastes, mustn't it? They do seem to value their caution, what with the heavy armor and such."

The Breton took it in stride. "Well, like I said, I don't have a death wish. When I'm out there doing my fighting, I do my best not to get hurt. I just, uh… well, I suppose I don't really mind if I do." He chuckled a little, staring off into the distance, almost wistfully. "Ahhh. The, uh… the ring is very nice, though. As far as I know, the ones for the Black Machine are the only ones of their kind in existence. Plus Kamian's, I suppose. Very serious stuff."

One hundred fifty-one rings. For an impossibly powerful sort of item, that was quite the high number, but it also sounded terribly finite. More than that, it sounded very deliberate and purposeful, which did lead to a very pressing question. "Who could possibly enchant such an item as this?"

"Well, the Dragonborn, of course." The Breton said it like it should have been obvious. But perhaps he had a point. There was not an overabundance of skilled enchanters in Blackreach. "I came down here after the Dominion attack on Alftand, and he was making the rings right around then."

"After the Dominion attack on Alftand," Zaryth repeated. She was vaguely familiar with that attack. But something didn't add up. That attack, as she understood, had happened at the beginning of Sun's Dawn, and yet Thorald had joined the Black Machine somewhere around a month prior. "How are you in Thorald's squad, then?"

To her surprise, Echallos' face fell. Something she'd said had struck him the wrong way. "Oh, uh… did he not tell you about this?"

Zaryth shook her head blankly. She was starting to realize that there was quite a lot that Thorald hadn't told her. In nearly the same moment as that realization, she also realized that that was probably because she'd never bothered to show any interest. When she thought about it like this, it was hard to see why Thorald wanted to spend so much time around her.

"This was before my time," Echallos said. "I actually came to Alftand _after_ the attacks. But we all know the stories, down here. On the day of the attack, the Black Machine was all here in the Silent City. We had a dragon down here—yes, a dragon, held captive. Name of Vulthuryol. The Dragonborn had some kind of bargain running with Hermaeus Mora, and Vulthuryol was a vital bargaining chip, don't ask me why. We were guarding it until the time came to exact the Dragonborn's deal.

"Then the alarm came from Alftand. The Dragonborn had been poisoned, and was near death, unable to fight. Poisoned, by an assassin. We all knew that meant a big attack was coming. So we loaded up the shuttle to Alftand full of Black Gears, numbers 1 through 25, sent it on its way, and… it crashed. One of the cables snapped. It was going so quickly, everyone inside was killed, instantly."

Zaryth put a hand to her mouth. No, Thorald had not told her about this. And, it completely inappropriately occurred to her, she was likely never going to be able to look at those shuttles the same way again.

Echallos continued speaking. "The next part, I only know about from Thorald himself. While everyone was crowding around the wreckage, he and his squad were the only ones—he wasn't even the leader of his squad, someone called Ralof was—they were the only ones to realize that nobody was guarding Vulthuryol anymore. One of our workshop staff was on top of the dragon's neck, where we'd tied him down. Turned out he was a Thalmor spy. And the son of a bitch designed the armor all the Black Machine was wearing.

"Among other things, he'd hidden a spring-loaded spike in the helmets. Only way to activate it was through telekinesis. So when Thorald and his squad confronted him, all he had to do was use that spell, and… Thorald was the only one to figure it all out in time. He took his helmet off at the last possible second. By then, Ralof and all his other squadmates were dead with spikes in their skulls. Then he faced off against the spy in single combat, and defeated him. And saved Vulthuryol, which gave Hermaeus Mora cause to step in and wipe out the entire Aldmeri attack force for us. But after that all, Thorald was the only surviving member of his squad. So I'm one of the replacements."

Zaryth stared.

"So I hope this adds a little clarity to why we had to have your mind scanned when you first came in here," Echallos added.

"You could say that," she said numbly.

"And when you're asking about how we're not afraid… well, no one said we're not. We're always in danger out there. We just put on some scary-looking armor and hope the enemy will be as afraid as we are."

"But… then…"

"I think it's called bravery," Echallos answered smoothly, without even waiting for her to make a sentence. "For some reason, a lot of us stupid warriors need it so we can do our jobs."

So that was how Thorald had gotten where he was. Or a little bit of it, at least. It had never really occurred to Zaryth that maybe the soldiers down here could actually get killed by anything. But by what she'd just heard…

She had a memory. Something Thorald said, when he was trying to convince her to submit to the mind-scan spell. He'd said that they'd lost people to Thalmor spies before. She remembered Thorald telling her that, now. But he hadn't told her that he'd had to watch every single member of his squad die in front of him. Zaryth could imagine it all too well. The flashes of telekinesis, the people inexplicably dropping to the ground. She wondered what it'd be like for those to be people she cared about.

After a few seconds, she wordlessly took the Dwemer metal ring back off her thumb, and held it out for Echallos to reclaim. It didn't belong to her anyway.

"Thanks," Echallos said, as he put his ring back on. "I hope I didn't disturb you for life just now. That's all really in the past. You don't need to feel like it happened yesterday."

Zaryth looked at her empty hand, examining it front and back. The ring had left a faint mark where it had pressed into her skin for minutes on end. She began to say, slowly, "I… really don't have very much to offer, beyond my, uh… skill, as a mage. I would hate to have to fight anyone wearing one of these rings. They'd probably kill me in a heartbeat."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." The Breton had a mock-dismissive tone on. It quickly changed to a much more openly good-natured one. "No one here wants to hurt you. You ought to know that by now."

"No, no, I do, that wasn't my point. I was trying to… I mean…" Zaryth ran her hands over her face. "Ugh, forget it. This isn't helping."

"What, do you think we're just gonna not care about you unless you can impress us with your mage skills?"

Zaryth lowered her hands and stared at Echallos silently.

"It's just a guess," Echallos shrugged.

"I think you're actually stealing notes from Thorald," she said.

"Well, if by 'stealing notes' you mean 'talking to', yes. We talk about you quite a bit. I mean, he really likes you. I think sometimes he just starts thinking about you randomly, when we're not doing anything." Echallos chuckled under his breath. "Ohhh, he would not like it if he knew I was telling you that."

Zaryth put a knuckle to her lip, silent in thought. She'd never thought so deeply about anything to do with Thorald's actual life. Of course she'd wanted him to be happy, but she'd understood so little of the person she was trying to see to happy places. And she doubted she understood much more now.

She asked, "Where _is_ Thorald right now?"

Echallos shrugged once more. "I couldn't say. I haven't seen him since lunchtime. Hopefully, someplace besides the target range. He seemed really worn out after yesterday. You could check the living quarters, maybe. If nothing else, someone there might have a better idea of where he's off to."

The living quarters. Zaryth remembered the last time that she'd dared to edge a toe in there. It had been enough of an ordeal to leave her completely content with hiding in her laboratory building on a regular basis ever since. She didn't look forward to repeating the experience.

"Yes, well, I… I may want to go speak to Thorald now, if that's all right."

Echallos nodded agreeably. "Sounds good. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me."

"You're welcome, Echallos." And that was that. Zaryth rose from her seat, cast a slowfall spell on herself, and hopped off the edge of the balcony. This was much more convenient than using the stairs.

The courtyard below was currently empty. Once Zaryth touched down on the ground once again, she strode out the main entrance and started down the stairway to the paved road below. Thankfully, the way to the Black Machine living quarters was not long. It was little more than a simple stroll around the corner.

It occurred to her that, had the courtyard been populated, she might have been stopped and asked how she had just jumped from such a high balcony without injury. She understood that the slowfall spell was not generally practiced in Skyrim's arcane circles—which struck her as bizarre, since life in Skyrim involved dealing with so much mountainous terrain. One would think that it would be a mainstay for any explorer. But as it stood, here she was, using a cast of slowfall to control herself dropping from heights while miles underground.

She'd begun to steel herself for the experience of entering the Black Machine living quarters. It was an ordeal, she knew, but it was for a good cause. Walking past all the various soldiers doing their various daily things was simply a requirement for finding anyone in there. And while Thorald had been continuing to check on her in her lab every now and then, sometimes it was best not to wait.

Then she walked in through the curtain of chains, and was greeted by a near-empty room.

Thorald Gray-Mane was sitting at the very back, near the end of the long stone table, reading a book in total silence. He was the only person in here. And for once, he wasn't even in his armor.

Zaryth realized that this should have been obvious. It was mid-afternoon. On reflex, she checked the miniaturized clock in her belt pouch—it was 2:40 PM. Everyone else who would have been in here was busy training.

She strode across the room at as brisk a pace as dignity allowed. Thorald realized it was her almost immediately—she wondered if it was because she had audible footsteps—and slowly went about marking his page and closing his book. By the time they were within speaking distance, Thorald had just finished standing up. He began to smile and offer a polite greeting.

"Well, good afternoon, Zaryth—"

He did not receive an opportunity to finish his sentence. The Dunmer walked straight up to him, and grabbed him in the tightest embrace of her life. Without the armor in the way, there was nothing to impede what this was about. His body was warm and dry and well-kept, and… and had a distinct scent of mountain flowers about it. And that was what she perceived in the very first second. A moment later, she felt the Nord's muscular arms settle across her back, and there they held.

It was… it was more than Zaryth had expected. Their height difference was such that she could rest her head comfortably against Thorald's shoulder, and… maybe she had some other words to analyze it all, but they weren't there at the moment. It was so soothing. She closed her eyes, and just let the moment happen. It was just a hug, it shouldn't have felt like too great a deal, but… it felt perfect. All the noise and chaos of her constant thoughts simply melted away. Time passed. She didn't care.

At some point, Thorald pulled away from her, and looked down at her face with a look of sheer elation. "I'd been hoping for that sometime," he murmured.

"I…" Zaryth swallowed. She let go very reluctantly, and took a step back. This was the part she should have been steeling herself for, she realized. It was much more difficult than merely walking through a crowd. "I feel I must apologize to you, now, Thorald… I, uh… I've realized that I haven't treated you nearly as well as you deserve, and…"

Immediately, Thorald turned away and winced. When he looked back, his expression was one of knowing annoyance. "Has Echallos been talking to you?"

"He, uh… he says hi," Zaryth offered meekly.

"I told him not to bother you," Thorald muttered, before addressing her more directly once again. "You seem all right for it. Are… you actually feeling all right?"

Was she feeling all right? She was trying to apologize, and Thorald was still only interested in how she was feeling. She had to struggle not to just be annoyed at him for ignoring his own end of things so much. "Well, no, I'm understanding that you've been… you know, rather, uh…. rather impossibly patient with me. And I'm not entirely sure why you've wanted my company, because, uh…"

"All right, that's enough," the Nord cut her off. "… Thank you. I appreciate it. Let's not dwell on that."

So much the better, she supposed. It wasn't easy to own up to what she recognized as a mistake, but if Thorald had gotten the message, that was the important part. And a bit of a relief, too. Few things were harder than making an entirely unconditional apology. She was glad to move on to something else. Still, it took her a little bit to remember anything else she'd wanted to say.

"I… actually, I have a… I suppose a question. Echallos told me about the thing with the Thalmor spy. I heard the shuttle crashed. So… how is there still a shuttle on the Alftand route?"

Thorald scratched at the back of his neck and looked off into the distance. "Uh… Hmm. Good question. I think our work teams salvaged what parts they could from the crashed shuttle, and copied the rest from another one. I think it might've been the one for Mzinchaleft. It took them a few weeks, whatever they did."

"A few weeks?" Zaryth gaped. That should have taken years, if it were possible at all. "How did—"

"You'd have to ask them, not me," Thorald said quickly. "I was busy learning how to use those new self-loading crossbows."

Zaryth shook her head slowly. Somehow, people had been working miracles down here. She could have gone on for ages about all the implications of the Dwemer shuttles and their engineering. But she didn't.

Instead, she peered past Thorald's arm and looked at the table behind him, where he'd set his book down. "What were you reading?"

Thorald smiled softly. For a few seconds, he said nothing, simply looking at her with some sort of visible affection. Then he raised his eyebrows and looked behind himself at the book. "It's, uh… It's one of our books on loan from Winterhold. I wanted to read something that didn't have anything to do with Dwemer or Falmer or ruins or crypts or, uh, violence."

That pause had been a little odd. Zaryth didn't understand what Thorald had been thinking just then, but he did seem to be glad for something, which was the part of importance.

"I didn't realize that the College of Winterhold had any books outside those topics," Zaryth observed mildly.

That elicited a good-natured chuckle from him. "Well, they do, they just never get loaned out."

The Dunmer nodded thoughtfully. When she spoke again, it was with perhaps a bit more care than usual. "How… All right, I'm not sure how to ask this. But how is it that everyone down here does so much reading? I—I don't mean that as an insult. Really. But even in the College itself, most of the reading is for the purpose of study. You all seem to just do it for its own sake."

Thorald took a deep breath in. This was going to be good. "Well, a few reasons, I think. One's that we just have a lot of books. We obviously have all kinds of warrior things to spend our time on, and—some of us actually do study spells, too, I know Echallos does—but no, it's something to do, just for fun."

He glanced back at the book, where he'd left it on the table. He must have been thinking something interesting right then. Zaryth waited for him to continue.

"I think… I think the reason it's really caught on, though, is because it gives us things in common to talk about. Nord warriors usually like to spend their free time talking about things they like, and oftentimes that's full of, oh, Nordic tradition and drinking songs and all that business. I know I used to do a lot of that, a while back. But many of us have nothing to do with that sort of thing. Reachmen, Imperials, races of mer—they don't give a damn about Ysgramor's legacy or Talos worship or any of that proud Nordic nonsense, and why should they? They all have their own ideas of what to think about, what to talk about. And likewise, Nords like myself tend not to give a damn about their version of things. So we have to look elsewhere to spend our free time in some kind of common ground."

"Like books," Zaryth said.

"Exactly."

It was fascinating, hearing Thorald simply explain these things. He spent so little time speaking up about anything, and most of Zaryth's memories of him actually saying things consisted of pithy observations and decisive commentary. It was all very terse. She'd never really wondered what it would be like if she gave Thorald the chance to talk as much as she always did.

Typically, her experience was that if she stopped saying interesting things, people stopped being interested in her. Presumably, Thorald already knew that, like he already knew everything else between them. It might have had something to do with why he'd put up with it for so long. But at the moment, she wasn't sure what to think at all.

One thing was definitely certain, though: she had never thought that she might find herself talking to a Nord warrior who freely admitted to reading books for fun. For that matter, it sounded like the same was true for the entire Black Machine. An army of warriors whose uniting culture was based on… books. Their collection of books. Simple as that.

That didn't sound like it should even have been possible. Warriors never cared about sitting around and reading and learning. … Unless they did.

"I've been thinking," Thorald said. "You know how sometimes people will have one single kiss with their love before they go off into battle, and it ends up being actually their last kiss together?"

Zaryth frowned. "Uh… yes?"

"Well, I'd hate for us to have to go through that. So I had an idea where we started early."

That was an unexpected direction for that idea. Zaryth wondered what she was supposed to make of it. Or, she started to wonder some things, and then Thorald took her in his arms again, and just like that—their lips met. Any other ideas of hers went up in smoke.

She didn't know how long they spent together. Thorald held her with the perfect, confidently firm embrace that showed of tender warmth and fiery passion both. His kiss was so delicate, Zaryth couldn't believe it—for all the patience and care the Nord had ever shown, she still was amazed at the sheer smoothness of his touch. They broke away only long enough to take a breath in against each other, and the kiss resumed. And it went on, and it went on, and they settled against each other as it went, and Zaryth couldn't remember why she'd ever wanted to wait for this.

When they finally came apart for good, her whole body was awash in feelings she'd nearly forgotten she could have. All she could think was that this was a marvelous moment to be in. And going by how Thorald was beaming down at her, he looked to be thinking the very same.

"Not a bad idea," she said, still breathless from the moment.

Thorald nodded slowly, putting on a contemplative but satisfied sort of expression. Then he darted in and gave her another little kiss before pulling back again. "All right, good," he murmured. "Just making sure that really happened."

Zaryth laughed out loud. She could get used to this. Actually, she was pretty sure she was already getting used to this right now. "Yes, it completely happened. How do you feel, now that you've kissed someone as grand as a Telvanni mage?"

Thorald moved his head side to side and made an indistinct sarcastic-sounding nonsense noise. Then he just went back to beaming. "I… am so glad I found you."

Indeed, he had been the one to find Zaryth, hadn't he? Outside the doors of Saarthal, out in the snow. With those Thalmor assassins in College robes, and their awful poisoned arrow. That had only been a few weeks ago, she realized, but it felt so much longer. It was back there with all her other distant memories of exploring Tamriel.

"Ohh, yes. Uh. … Is this a bad time to thank you for that? Because you completely saved my skin out there. I don't think I ever, uh…" She trailed off sheepishly.

"Your poor skin," Thorald said mock-tenderly, stroking a thumb softly down her cheek. "No, don't worry about it. You're very welcome, though. I wasn't sure if you were going to make it, for a minute there."

Zaryth had no memory of what Thorald was talking about. She was searching her mind for her first sight of him, and she remembered that mysterious armored terror stabbing her would-be killer in the back… and then, with nothing in between, she'd been on her back with the armored terror shaking her shoulder. It had never even really occurred to her to wonder what had happened in that intervening time.

But she could probably guess. She'd been hit in the back of the leg with an arrow, and apparently, she'd lost a lot of blood. She imagined Thorald, in his full faceless armor, frantically struggling to get the arrow out of her, and stop the bleeding before it was too late—they hadn't even spoken, at that point. She'd been a complete stranger to him, and he'd still fought to keep her alive. And when she'd woken up, all she'd done was be afraid of him? Really?

"Thankfully, you did," Thorald added.

Zaryth decided that a change in subject matter was in order. She was sure she had other things on her mind, even if most of them had just evaporated just now. "So, um… I heard you have a birthday coming up."

"Echallos, right?" His expression didn't even change. "… Figures. Yes. I do indeed have a birthday coming up. I'll be turning 43. Personally, I think it's rather unremarkable, but there you go."

43\. That was a lower number than Zaryth had expected, but somehow higher at the same time. It was lower because she was used to dealing with other Dunmer, or races of similar longevity—when she'd been that age herself, she had still been, by Morrowind's standards, very young and inexperienced. At the same time, Thorald didn't seem all that old, for a member of his race. He had the gray hair on him, yes, but in his family that was no signifier of age. With the lifespans of the races of men in mind, he could have been five, perhaps ten years younger and Zaryth wouldn't have known.

"It's not very unremarkable to me," she said absently, before shaking herself back to attention. She had a goal, here. "Uh… What I mean is, I don't want it to be merely another day for you. It's an opportunity to commemorate your life's progression, isn't it?"

Thorald shrugged in response, and turned to go look at his book as he spoke. "Well, a year ago, I was freezing in a Thalmor prison cell and denying my allegiance to the Stormcloak Rebellion. Now both of those groups are gone from Skyrim, and I'm in a place I didn't know existed, serving a hero I didn't know existed, in an army I didn't know existed." He paused. "Talking to maybe the most lovely person I've ever met, and I didn't know she existed either."

Zaryth bit her lip. It didn't do much to contain her smile. She nodded silently for a few seconds, fidgeting in place as she tried to think of a proper response to that remark. In the end, she opted for a subject change, and pointed hesitantly at the book. "So, um… Mmm. What is that, exactly? What title is that?"

"Oh, it's just some religion book," Thorald answered, with a bit of a laugh. "Or at least I think that's what it's supposed to be. It's… It's actually really funny reading. It's one in a whole series of books, I think, they're about this incredibly mentally disturbed guy proclaiming himself a god, he's named Vivec—"

"Well! Well then! You just found one of the biggest lies I ever knew about. Well then." Zaryth put her hands on her hips, and looked at the book and… she didn't know whether to laugh or cry or what. "Vivec, if you're not aware, was one of three very powerful elves who once ruled Morrowind. They fancied themselves gods, they were called the Tribunal."

"Tribunal." Thorald stroked his chin for a moment, then shook his head. "No, never heard of it, sorry."

"Once, in Morrowind, you'd have had trouble hearing of anything else. They had a vicious campaign of censorship. They tried to pass those books off as truth."

The Nord flipped the book open, and started going through pages idly. "Really? Because it says here that he got his feet chopped off by Molag Bal. And then married him. And offered his head for Molag Bal's personal pleasure."

Zaryth shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, all right? I didn't write it."

Far behind her, the curtain of chains rattled audibly. She turned around to see, unsurprisingly, a Black Gear—an Imperial, it looked like, wearing armor from the shoulders down.

"Hey, Thorald!" The Imperial waved.

"Hi!" Thorald called out brightly, then dropped his voice down to conversation volume. "All right, that's Decarro. … You know, my squadmate."

That probably called for an end to their little moment together, then. Zaryth nodded, half in understanding and half in concluding, and stepped back away from the table as Thorald's squadmate approached. "Think about it, though," she said. "Really. It's your day."

"Thank you. I really appreciate that from you. Take care, all right? I'll just… enjoy this really hilarious book in your absence." The Nord looked down and started flipping through pages again.

Zaryth rolled her eyes. "There are probably fewer than ten copies of that book left in the world, but if you want to get a laugh out of it, be my guest."

"If you'd like me to read aloud the part about Molag Bal—"

"Thank you, thank you, Thorald, I'm on my way now. Thank you."

And that was all there was to it. She passed the Imperial by with a polite nod, and headed on her way out through the chain-curtain doorway. But as she did, she had a strange feeling that she was leaving in a different sort of world from when she'd come in. Something had really changed in here.

She wasn't going to by coy with herself, though. It was probably because Thorald had just kissed her. She'd been half-teasing him about getting to kiss a Telvanni mage, but the truth was that if anyone should have felt flattered or lucky right now, it was Zaryth herself.

Once she got back to her laboratory, there was going to be a lot for her to think about. And just about none of it had to do with scholarly study.


	29. Aicantar 5

Morndas, 8:44 AM, 25th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Alftand

Today was another beautiful day!

Actually, Aicantar was way underground and had no idea what it was like outside. The dining hall's big wall clock said it was 8:44 in the morning. But the sun could've just not risen that morning and he wouldn't know. It was more that today was a new day and Alftand was beautiful all the time.

So far, he'd been here for exactly a week. And oh, was there so much for him to learn. The first thing had been just how to live his daily life in Alftand. It kind of reminded him of how he'd shared his living space with the people in Understone Keep, except… not. In that case, his entire life hadn't been underground. Here, he wore the unofficial Alftand uniform of the light worker's clothing. He'd gotten a few changes of that, free of charge, on the first day. His new very helpful Breton friend, Sarelle, had made sure he'd gotten the right sizes and everything.

Then, after Sarelle had gone off for her day's work, Aicantar had gotten to learning about these communal dining halls—meals were officially served three times a day but people could come by whenever—and about where to find the library and temples and shops and… all of that had been on the very first morning. Then he was on to looking at things to actually do.

Most of the really hard work went on in Alftand's atrium, which was the closest area to the surface that was actually inhabited. It was a huge, towering open space, ringed with ramps spiraling all the way up to the top, with doors branching off to work spaces along the way. That was where the people of Alftand grew their food, refined their materials, crafted their wares, all that stuff. Aicantar had spent a good while just touring all of that, studying the machinery, talking to the workers. And that'd been really educational.

It was interesting, how the trade of gold went around here. The workers were divvied up into organized teams—sort of like guilds, Aicantar noticed, but more specialized—who all worked for themselves and earned their own gold. So far, so normal. It started to get strange when one noticed that their biggest customer, more often than not, was the Jarl himself. He bought all of the food and supplies for everyone, and then handed it out as much as people needed. And the way he paid for it all was by taxing all of the trade transactions in the city.

The end result of all this was that everyone contributed a portion of their earnings to the same common pool of provisions. Poorer folk, buying relatively little with their earnings, paid just a little gold to the Jarl for their daily food and housing. Richer folk, trading in more expensive things, paid a lot of gold to the Jarl—for the same daily food and housing. In Alftand, the poorer people actually sort of came out ahead.

And apparently, outside Markarth, this was something Alftand was well-known for. It was probably why no noble families had moved here. The politics were a blank slate, so reputation didn't count for much, and wealth didn't carry the same power as in other cities. This place was full of people who should've counted as nobody.

That included Aicantar, he realized. He didn't really have a name for himself. But Alftand gave the same opportunities for everyone—so the question was, what could an aspiring mage and scholar like himself do to help?

He was asking himself that question this morning. And by asking himself that question, he meant sitting here, in the lower dining hall, and scraping at the last of the food in his bowl. There was a lot for him to think about, really. The food, for one thing. He couldn't really get upset about the food. They'd warned him about it pretty much the minute he'd first walked into Alftand. He still wished the hydro-farms could grow some kind of spices or something. This was sad.

On maybe a less horrid note, the notice board had been interesting recently. Both the upper and lower dining halls had one. Just a big wooden board on the wall, that people could fix pieces of paper on when they wanted to get a message out there. Mostly, it was just logistical updates from Administration, and sometimes statements from the Jarl. It was a rule that anything on there had to get a mark of approval by Administration first, so it at least wasn't plastered over with random scribbles like one might've expected.

But Aicantar had come in yesterday, and read something titled 'Report on the Oblivion Purge'. Everyone had been aware by this point that the Dragonborn had done _something_ to Oblivion, but this was the first thing to shed any real light on it. Apparently, the report was the result of some expedition by the College of Winterhold, which was great. But the actual contents of the report were… a little shocking. On the 16th of Rain's Hand, so almost a month and a half ago, the Dragonborn had exerted his will on the seventeen Daedric Princes in Oblivion. When he'd finished, he'd reduced that number down to _five_.

The list of existent Daedric Princes now consisted of Azura, Meridia, Nocturnal, Jyggalag, and Trinimac. Aicantar didn't even understand exactly how those last two had happened. Apparently, the Dragonborn had looked at Sheogorath and Malacath, and decided to just get rid of the curses upon them. As opposed to getting rid of them entirely, like he'd done to the other twelve.

For the most part, the people in Alftand didn't really care about this. The Dunmer living here were a little disturbed that a bunch of their pantheon was gone—though not very many of them seemed to even care about the Daedra, at this point—and the Orsimer were mainly just confused by what'd happened with Malacath. But in both cases, the prevailing feeling seemed to be relief. The rumors had been that basically all of Oblivion had been wiped out of being.

In Aicantar's case, his prevailing feeling was apathy. All right, Oblivion looked different now. Life still went on. People still did their jobs. The food here was still hilariously unappealing. And now that he was here in Alftand, the Altmer still didn't know what exactly he wanted to do.

Most everyone had already left at this point, so it was just him, a few long stone tables, and two or three other people who were taking their time with starting their days.

"So, Aicantar. What's on your mind?"

And, sitting next to him and watching him very intently, Sarelle. The Breton girl from Administration. She'd really been going out of her way to look after him. Even right now, she was just sitting here and keeping him company, despite that she'd long since finished her breakfast, and that she had to go start her day's work in fifteen minutes.

Aicantar smiled a little. "Wondering how my fantastic elven mage powers would be best put to use."

"Really? I thought you were busy thinking about how delicious your breakfast just now was."

The food thing again, yes. He snorted. "Sure. That's still funny."

Sarelle gave him a perfectly innocent smile. "Well, there's a reason the Nords keep using this room after dinnertime for their, uh… What's the word? Festivities? Debauchery? … Drowning the boringness of their food in the warm embrace of strong drink?"

"Nords do that no matter what," Aicantar grinned. "Don't you know that? They did in Markarth, that's for sure."

"I bet they didn't have moonshock in Markarth."

Moonshock. Aicantar was familiar with the term. They'd gotten about twenty bottles of the stuff from Blackreach. Apparently, the court wizard down there had made a mistake doing some alchemy, and now they had this glowing bright blue fluid with enough strength to fell a Nord warrior in a single swig. The new custom was to pour an ounce of the stuff into a tankard of ale, and drink it all on the spot.

Not that he'd know anything about all that. Really, he didn't. He'd just heard about it secondhand, in this very hall at that. It seemed to be a point of pride that the people of Alftand had drinks that _glowed_. The rest of Skyrim just didn't know what they were missing.

That last part was definitely true.

"Well, isn't it nice to have some kind of drink that we don't have to import? It's rather expensive, doing that. I don't think the Jarl even pays for it."

"He doesn't," Sarelle shook her head. "Good thing, too. If he did, he'd never get a day's work out of anyone around here."

Aicantar laughed again. He sort of felt like his favorite part of talking to Sarelle was just listening to her come up with new little remarks all the time. "You'd think that with all the drink coming in, we might also get to import some decent food. I'm sure people here would pay for it, even if the Jarl wouldn't. … And he should, by the way."

The Breton shrugged. "Maybe the food in Skyrim is just generally bland. In High Rock, I've heard, a whole lot more effort goes into cooking."

"You don't actually know?"

"The Forsworn didn't bother with all of that, so no. … Not that I enjoy this very much. We don't exactly get a lot of meat, do we? I'd pay real gold for a venison roast. Or some s… slaughterfish or something, I don't know."

Aicantar raised his eyebrows. "I thought you were going to say salmon."

"Actually, do you want your special contribution to Alftand to be to make the food better? You'd be hailed as a hero forever."

"Frankly, if no one's been able to do it before me…"

"Are you joking? That's exactly the kind of way that the crazy ambitious mages of Skyrim love to start a sentence."

"… I might want to be careful what I put all my time towards." Which was actually how he'd planned on finishing the sentence, too.

"Well, you've certainly seen plenty of projects over the past few days." Mostly, ones that Sarelle had actively pointed him to go look at. There was just so much Dwemer machinery up and running in this city. "What _are_ you thinking of?"

"Good question, really. Something nice. Something with… with academic focus and, oh, I don't know, archaeological study, or… you get the idea, right?"

"Things that the Markarth court wizard's nephew would likely be good at, yes." The Breton gave him a wry look.

"Oh, come on, don't be like that." Aicantar laughed and shook his head. "It's not a great skill set for one of the usual categories, though, is it? So much dabbling."

"You only even think of it in terms of categories from being around me so much," she said, and she was probably right.

There were about a thousand people in Alftand. Aicantar had heard about the numbers from Sarelle a while back. Administration kept a very detailed account of who everyone was and what they did. And it was interesting how it went from there.

A little under half of the people here—four hundred, or thereabouts—were all working as some kind of laborer. A lot of this involved just keeping Alftand running, with food from the farms, working machinery, and that sort of thing, but there were also efforts for mining, sewing (for all those light worker outfits), trade good production, and even construction. Alftand was expanding all the time. New machinery, new fortifications, new _rooms_. The more they understood about this place, the more they could make it their own.

Sixty or so people had service jobs, doing things that involved consistent work but not with material resources. Merchants, administrators, scholars, priests—they had temples and shrines to all kinds of gods in Alftand, including a couple of Daedra. Also in this category were the Jarl's professional trainers. There wasn't a lot of need for unskilled labor in Alftand, so people coming in had the opportunity to get trained —free of charge, of course—in basic tradecraft and engineering as any particular labor job required. Aicantar never thought he'd see an Orc showing a Khajiit how to operate a Dwemer machine, but there it was.

Finally, just under a hundred of them were guards, which was a huge portion, and for three reasons. One was that unlike the labor jobs, which involved a lot of working with Dwemer machinery, they couldn't really (safely) automate the city's guard duty. Another was that there was just a very defensive attitude in Alftand after the Aldmeri attack some months ago, so the guards now were well-trained, well-equipped, and very numerous. Lastly, the guards did a lot of investigation and monitoring of the goings-on in Alftand—including of each other. Jarl Noster had made it very explicitly clear that his city wasn't going to turn into another Markarth. It was hard to accept a bribe or abuse a citizen when you were just as likely as anyone else to get thrown in jail for it.

That all left a little over four hundred people outside the main categories. A few people just didn't want to work, for whatever reason, but they weren't the majority. It also included children, elderly, the disabled or infirm, and anyone else who wasn't about to take up a job whether they wanted to or not. Anyone whose main vocation didn't involve a regular wage would end up outside the categories, too. Artists, musicians, tinkerers, researchers—it occurred to Aicantar, with some amusement, that his uncle Calcelmo would've been officially treated here, _officially_ , as not having a real job. They were just so honest about these things.

Aicantar said, "Well, I'm content to experiment, provided I can get a workspace—"

"You can."

"—but I don't know. This is such a beautiful place. I'd love to contribute to it more than that."

Sarelle gave him a soft smile. "This is why I'm around you so much, you know. You have such a good heart. Alftand needs people like you if it's going to prosper."

"So, how do I go about getting a workspace?"

"Oh, there are some papers to fill out, as usual. If you come by Administration later, I can get those for you." She glanced at the wall clock, and frowned suddenly. "Ugh, Divines, I'm going to be late if I don't hurry. Are you all right if I head out?"

The Altmer snorted dismissively. "I should hope so. … I mean, I'm not going to kill myself with irresponsible magic the minute I'm unsupervised, if that was your worry."

"No, I'm just making sure. I'll see you around, I hope."

Then she leaned over—she smelled of snowberries, how about that—and gave Aicantar a delicate kiss on the cheek.

Time stopped for a second. Aicantar had never known what that would feel like. A whole rush of feelings came up in his chest all at once. How had that just happened? He hadn't even done anything to earn this. It was a blessing. He was being blessed somehow. Oh gods, her lips were so soft. They'd felt so soft on his skin. He was going to die of being a blushing mess if he didn't pull himself together. Just, spontaneously die. That was… That had been the best shock of his life.

By the time he'd stopped being stunned, the Breton had already left. He was sitting alone at this table. There was nothing to do but take his dishes back to the kitchen and set out for his morning.

It sounded like he might need to wait a little bit before they'd be ready for him in Administration. That was fine. Probably the biggest thing he'd been spending his time on recently was just exploring Alftand and examining every little thing. He figured today would be good for a little more of that.

The past few days, he'd been pretty much living in the atrium all day, just going around from room to room, seeing how people did what they did. And that'd been a whole lot of fun. There'd been just so many different devices to look at. So many professions, so many inventions. Even that awful tasteless bean stuff came from a variety of Dwemer machine. It'd been beyond fascinating.

But he'd spent a few days on that already, so today, he headed not upward, but downward. He was already beneath the living quarters and the market hall. Really, he was already beneath the heart of the animonculory. He just wanted to see what was down here.

Not that he hadn't already, at least in passing. He knew the general idea of the Alftand cathedral. Kind of a weird name for what amounted to a dead end cavern. Or, not a dead end, exactly—the cavern that led to the doors to Blackreach. No one ever really went down this far, and for good reason. There wasn't anything waiting for them behind those doors.

Everyone knew about Blackreach here in Alftand, but no one talked about what was actually in there. That was the Dragonborn's inner sanctum. Everyone who'd gone down there worked directly for the Jarl, and, of course, the Jarl answered to the Dragonborn—it was where the Black Machine operated from, and that was openly acknowledged as the Dragonborn's personal army. Blackreach wasn't someplace to live a life, it was someplace to help fight a war. Aicantar didn't envy the people who resided there.

So he had quite the surprise when he walked into the cathedral, and saw someone coming _out_ through the Blackreach doors. That… didn't really happen ever. Maybe this was something worth sticking around to watch.

The person was a Khajiit. Male, by the looks of it, with gray-white fur, patterned with a couple thin black running stripes. That much was typical. Less typical was what the Khajiit was _wearing_. Aicantar had never seen anything like it. Basically all of it was black. Sleek, form-fitting black leather armor over a black short-sleeved shirt, and black trousers over black boots. It looked like he even had black fingerless gloves, studded with shiny silver rivets. And on top of it all, he had on a silver circlet, like a noble. Or a mage. But mages didn't usually carry swords on their waists, and he had one of those too.

Who dressed like that? Did this guy want to become a Dremora? It looked like the armor had some kind of dark red pattern painted on the front, so maybe the answer was yes.

Still, manners were manners, so Aicantar waved politely. "Hail," he called out, and just left it at that. He had no idea how to address this Khajiit. It probably wasn't worth it to try.

The Khajiit walked up to him, and gave him an inquisitive look over. Aicantar realized that the red pattern on his chest was the same four-armed jagged shape that he'd been seeing on the guards' shields. "Good day to you," he said, in a smooth, savvy tone of voice. "What is your name, by chance?"

"Uh… My name's Aicantar," he replied, frowning a bit. He really didn't know what was going on here.

But that seemed to be a good answer, because the Khajiit's eyes lit up immediately. "Well, that _is_ a convenient happening. You are speaking to J'zargo, court wizard to the Jarl of Blackreach. J'zargo came up to Alftand to look for you."

Aicantar scratched his head. He completely hadn't been about to guess that. "You don't… look like a court wizard."

"Why? Too useful-looking?" J'zargo snorted. "We can talk about such things in due time. Khajiit will be blunt. We in Blackreach are working on a new project. Your help would be appreciated."

Blackreach. The Dragonborn's inner sanctum. Aicantar had just been invited into it. He just … just sort of gaped. What was he even supposed to think now? All he'd wanted was to look for something to do. This was maybe a _little_ bit more than he'd wished for. "Wh… why me? I'm sorry, I don't understand. All I do is experiment with things, I'm not…"

The Khajiit folded his arms. "Because you are new enough that we know you will not be invested in any other projects, and hard-working mages are always in high demand. What is more, you come highly recommended. J'zargo is sure you remember the Ebony Warrior."

"Uh…" Ebony Warrior. Where had he heard that name before? He didn't think he had. Presumably, this was in connection to the people he'd met from Blackreach already, which—actually, that only really left one possibility. "Ohhh, you mean Kamian. Big guy, right?"

"Hah! 'Big guy'. He is as much a big guy as the dragon Paarthurnax is an older gentleman. Yes, though, you do remember him." J'zargo gave him a knowing grin, then collected himself and nodded. "So. Blackreach. Would you like to see it for yourself?"

To be honest, that hadn't been one of Aicantar's priorities. Maybe it'd once been, back when he'd first heard about the place in Markarth, but by the time he'd gotten to Alftand, he was plenty satisfied with what he had. Plus, there was that whole Dragonborn's-inner-sanctum thing.

Still, an offer was an offer. "What exactly do you need me to do?"

J'zargo shrugged. "Merely some item enchanting, after a fashion. It is a need-to-know project for the time being, as all things in Blackreach—" He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Khajiit is sure you have noticed the particular lack of information about what goes on behind those doors."

It was true. Maybe not in a good way, but it was definitely true. Aicantar nodded along. "Yes, indeed. So, uh… if I go down there, am I allowed to come back up?"

"Of course. J'zargo just now ascended into Alftand, you can do the same. You will simply need to go through a mind-scan spell before you enter, for the purpose of security. And, of course, in the longer term, you must remain silent about what you see and what you do in Blackreach. Acceptable precautions, yes?"

Mind-scan spell. That sounded innocuous enough. "I suppose so." The Altmer sighed. "All right, why not. I'll do it. Not like I had anything else going on."

Immediately, J'zargo called up to the near-wall balcony above them, "Guard! An eleven-five!"

From up above them, out of sight, a very Nord-accented voice called back, "Eleven-five it is!"

Aicantar looked up at the source of the sound, then back at J'zargo. "Uh… what?"

"Calling the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold by remote detection magic," the Khajiit said nonchalantly. "He is the only one who knows the mind-scan spell. If you are concerned about that, do not be. It is only to check for any hidden commands from the Thalmor, and the like."

"Have a lot of problems with spies, then?"

That got him to chuckle darkly. Kind of ominous. "Ah, if only you knew."

"You've gone through the mind-scan too?"

"Of course. We all have, even the Jarl himself."

"And you trust the Arch-Mage?" It was worth asking, Aicantar thought. Just as a matter of course.

"With J'zargo's life," the Khajiit nodded. "J'zargo was once an apprentice in Winterhold. More than that, the Arch-Mage is a personal friend to the Dragonborn, and so in his inner circle, so to speak."

That made sense, sort of. Aicantar imagined that the head of the most prominent mage's school in Skyrim would make for a powerful ally, no matter who was involved or what they were doing. Honestly, he was just trying to remember the man's name right now. Or the mer's name. Or anything else about him, or her. Apparently he actually didn't know anything about the people in the College of Winterhold. Best to just wait and see, really.

In the meantime, he asked, "So, you can contact him over long range. Winterhold's about three days away, isn't it?"

"Not for the Arch-Mage," J'zargo smirked.

Aicantar opened his mouth to ask what that meant, but he didn't have to. Because at that moment, the Arch-Mage arrived.

It looked a lot like conjuring an atronach. Right in the middle of the cathedral, out on the open paved path through the underground soil, a big swirling ball of energy appeared—that brilliant, purple energy that only came with planar passage. And then, just as quickly, the ball disintegrated, and standing there was a person. Not an atronach, not a Daedra of any kind, just a living, mortal person.

The person was a Dunmer. An older male Dunmer, with a long gray beard in an easy overhand knot, and some very fancy layered bluish-gray hooded robes on. So… gray skin, gray beard, gray robes, this was a very gray Arch-Mage. Didn't stop him from looking like a god among mer, though.

"Arch-Mage," J'zargo called out. "We have someone for you over here." Then he lowered his voice, and said, "Aicantar, meet Arch-Mage Savos Aren."

The Dunmer took a brief look around the room, then walked up casually to J'zargo and Aicantar. "Good morning, J'zargo. … What are you _wearing?_ "

"New work outfit," the Khajiit shrugged pleasantly. "Arch-Mage Savos Aren, meet Aicantar. A new recruit."

So, they were just having a regular old chat with the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold now. Aicantar got the feeling that in Blackreach, things like this weren't even out of the ordinary.

"Well, I would love to become more properly acquainted, Aicantar," Savos Aren said, "but unfortunately, if we are to converse at length, it will have to be later. I was in the middle of a rather important endeavor, just now. Would you mind holding still for me?"

"Uh… all right, then," the Altmer said, glancing hesitantly at J'zargo. This was all still totally unexpected. Three minutes ago, he'd had a completely different idea of how his life was going to unfold.

It reminded him of how the Black Machine had reclaimed Markarth. It had been so quick and sudden, and it had changed Aicantar's entire life. Saved it, too, as he recalled. That all felt like a very long time ago now.

In any case, Savos Aren readied an alteration spell and walked up to Aicantar with his hands out. He reached around Aicantar's head, over his temples—oh gods, he was within an inch of the Arch-Mage, this was incredible, they were looking straight at each other—and then he was being bathed in glowing green magic. He didn't even feel anything out of the ordinary. Was this the mind-scan? It must have been.

And then, just as quickly as it had started, the spell was over, and Savos was stepping back and nodding to him. "You're quite fine. J'zargo, feel free to take him down below. We can talk more later."

Before Aicantar could say anything in reply, Savos engulfed himself in another swirling purple aura, and vanished. And that was that.

"Did… that just happen?"

"Yes, and you have nothing to worry about. Let us move." J'zargo laughed out loud and turned back for the doors to Blackreach, beckoning him to follow. "Khajiit promises, none of this is truly as absurd as it may seem. We have a procedure for us all to follow."

"You've got a pretty tall promise to keep right there," Aicantar muttered. There wasn't much to do but follow. He couldn't believe he was actually doing this, though. It was crazy. Just… it wasn't crazy enough for him to not want to see whatever would happen next.

There was a pretty unsurprising amount of security on the way through. First, they went past all the armed guards, which was normal for Alftand. Then, J'zargo produced a tube-shaped key from his pocket—not at all unlike Aicantar's personal key, the one that opened the chest with his belongings in it—to open the doors he'd just come out through. Then they were in a short hallway with _another_ pair of doors at the end, this one with a strange bit of machinery on the wall behind it. It looked like a focusing lens of sorts, set in a circular metal frame, with a little metal button underneath.

J'zargo walked up to that device, pressed the button with his thumb, and spoke his name aloud. The lens proceeded to rotate in its fixture, changing its optical focus, and then—Aicantar was practically blinded. The lens was flooding the whole hallway with a huge beam of white light. He could feel the _heat_ on him. And then it was done, and the doors swung open, letting them proceed to the next area.

Aicantar couldn't help himself for that one. "What _was_ that?"

"One of the Arch-Mage's helpful new additions," J'zargo replied smoothly as they descended a narrow, spiraling staircase around a big… machine thing. It had giant flat rings of metal at eccentric points, and some more lenses in the center. Probably not worth questioning. "Something to make sure J'zargo is who he says he is, and that no one undesired is in the corridor."

"Interesting," Aicantar said blandly. They were heading into a Dwemer lift cabin now, like the one he'd first taken down into Alftand. This one, he imagined, was going to be a bit longer of a ride.

J'zargo waited until the Altmer had followed him inside, then said, "Hold on," and leaned down to give the floor lever a solid push. The doors swung shut, the machinery around them hissed to life, and they began their descent.

Aicantar was now going down into Blackreach. He never thought he'd end up here. It was sort of incredible. Every second that went by, he was going deeper underground than he'd ever been in his life.

After a moment, he realized J'zargo was looking at him expectantly. Maybe he was supposed to say something. He just said the first thing that came to mind. "Why are you dressed like a spellsword?"

"What did you expect, a hooded heavy robe?" The Khajiit laughed out loud. "Even this much requires a fire resistance enchant, merely to keep comfortable in the warmth below the earth."

"Well, sure, but most of us just wear these." Aicantar gestured to his own clothing. He hadn't touched his own robe since he'd put it in his chest. Maybe if he left Alftand for some reason, he'd put it back on, but robes really had no place here. That said, neither did armor like J'zargo's.

"Khajiit often does as well," the alleged court wizard said mildly. "This is a new addition. Martial training is truly undervalued among mages, just as magic is undervalued among warriors." He paused. "Do you like the armor?"

Aicantar gave it another look over. It did look very articulated. The shoulders were broadened by a couple really imposing-looking pauldrons, and the abdomen was covered by a few V-shaped overlapping layers, which gave it all a very triangular feel. And of course, there was that strange red shape on the chest. He'd never seen leather armor quite like this before. "It looks good," he commented. "What's the red thing about?"

J'zargo gave him a confused squint. "It is the sigil of Blackreach. Have you never seen it before?"

"On the guards' shields, but I didn't think it really meant anything. It just looks like a fancy X shape."

"It is a nirnroot, Aicantar. Khajiit is sure you have seen one of _those_ before."

He had. But he definitely hadn't been about to guess that. He could definitely see it now, though, with the jagged leaves sprouting outwards in different directions. This would've been a perfectly top-down view of it. And very stylized, since nirnroots didn't really grow perfectly symmetrically. Also: "Nirnroots aren't red."

In response, J'zargo just flashed him a smile.

A little bit of time went by in silence. Aicantar wasn't minding this Khajiit's company at all, but he was trying to come up with good things to say. This was his first impression on the court wizard of Blackreach. "… Hey. You're the court wizard. You're the one who created moonshock, aren't you?"

"Yes, J'zargo is!" The smile came right back in full force. "Have you enjoyed that?"

"I… haven't tried it," the Altmer admitted. "But people seem to like it, yes. How do you even make it?"

"These days, J'zargo does not. At least, not for the most part. It is largely menial work, harvesting glowing mushrooms and putting them through the processes of alchemical fermentation. J'zargo has a number of assistants for such tasks. There are many glowing mushrooms in Blackreach, but we are already growing more, for the ease of replacement."

"You have assistants?" He hoped J'zargo wasn't an uncle to any of them. Court wizard uncles were the worst for company.

Actually, that wasn't fair. J'zargo was obviously nice enough. Businesslike, so far, but a lot of mages throughout Skyrim—and Tamriel in general—had an insufferable air of superiority, even towards other mages. Maybe Aicantar was still getting used to the tolerant cultural climate around here.

"A few," J'zargo nodded. "They serve their purpose well. J'zargo has instructed some to handle the gardening, and some to handle the production of moonshock, and one or two talented alchemists to handle the Black Machine's constant demand for basic potions. But none of them are suitable for what you have been chosen for. You are desired for much more than that."

"I imagine it's not for my stunning good looks," Aicantar deadpanned.

J'zargo completely cracked up. He couldn't even reply for a good four or five seconds. "… Well, you look magnificent, truly. Clothing notwithstanding."

The Altmer folded his arms and gave his fellow mage an appraising look. "Clothing notwithstanding because it's kind of boring, or because I'm still wearing it?"

"I see we will be getting along splendidly, Aicantar." He was still laughing a little. "No. You are desired because we are working on a project of magical significance, one that requires much committed labor. Gardening and alchemy require great skill, but no talent for the arcane arts. It is for this reason that despite its magical effects, alchemy is not considered a school of magic, in the fashion of enchanting."

Aicantar nodded silently. That did make sense. He'd never really stopped and thought about it that way, but knowing how to mix potions had pretty much nothing to do with knowing how to use magic. They just tended to come conveniently hand-in-hand.

The Khajiit continued, "This project does not quite count in any school of magic, either, though it should. J'zargo supposes that if it were to count as one, it would be in the lost school of mysticism."

That was a term Aicantar knew pretty much nothing of. But what he did know was that mysticism wasn't simply lost, it was obsolete. He asked, "What does the project, uh… consist of, then?"

"In a sentence, we are building a teleportation network between Blackreach and the major cities. It runs on magic previously believed lost during the Red Year in Morrowind, but that we have a Telvanni mage in our company. You will like her, I expect."

"Sounds fun," Aicantar said, without really thinking about it. Then he did start thinking about it, and he couldn't help but feel a little awed. That was such a beautifully world-changing plan. To let any number of people travel instantly across hundreds of miles… entire civilizations rose and fell by that kind of power. That last remark stuck out, though. "Who's the mage?"

"Zaryth Velani. You may or may not have heard of her. J'zargo certainly had not."

"… Actually, I think I might know that name. Book author, right?"

"Regarding the Dwemer, yes. It stands to reason that you would know this."

"I bet she's having a grand time in Blackreach," Aicantar murmured. "I don't suppose she's jealous of your position as court wizard."

"Hah! Doubtful." It was a bit of a mirthless laugh. Sardonic, maybe. "The duties of this position do not help with the research that scholar-mages such as herself so gladly pursue. She already has all of the resources the Jarl can offer her, J'zargo is sure."

"So… What do you do, then?"

The Khajiit let out a long sigh. It was a while before he spoke again. But when he did, he sounded like he knew exactly what he wanted to say.

"The position of the court wizard… is a difficult one to fill properly. We must be ready to answer the call of our Jarls, or anyone else who needs assistance, often with very little notice. Think about it, Aicantar. Busy planting your garden? It matters not, go sift through our new pile of Dwemer scrap so we can rid ourselves of the less useful parts. Busy conducting sensitive research? Drop that right now, you need to make a hundred potions by this time tomorrow or our army is doomed. It often proves impossible to commit oneself to any meaningful projects—we cannot even stray too far from home, despite that magical endeavors so often require travel and exploration. And then we are accused of doing nothing with ourselves, and performing no useful duty in the Jarl's court. We are told that our job is simple and easy."

Aicantar stared. His mouth was hanging open. He shook his head slowly, vaguely aware that an incredulous smile was forming on his face. "You're incredible. I don't think many court wizards even _care_ about what you're describing."

"Ah. You are a court wizard's nephew, yes?" J'zargo pointed at him idly, for emphasis. "What is your experience?"

His experience? That was a nice way of putting it all. He took a moment to compose his thoughts. This was actually the first time anyone had asked. "Well, the short version is that my uncle never cared about anyone or anything but his research. Mainly researching the Dwemer, of course. The ruins beneath Markarth are perfect for that. He's so detached from the politics there, the Thalmor didn't even bother with him when they executed the Jarl and his court."

J'zargo winced visibly. "… Khajiit was not aware that the Thalmor had done this."

"Oh, they did a lot of things in Markarth." Aicantar shook his head slowly. "They did a lot of things. They burned most of the Reach, I saw that myself, but I saw what they did to Markarth, too. Just be glad you weren't there."

He didn't want to talk about those memories right then. Because he had a lot of them. He remembered Bothela and Muiri, dragged out from their own shop. He remembered the city guard, forced to clean up the city keep before being all executed. He even… sadly, he even remembered the woman in the green dress.

He wondered if he could have done anything about that but run. Probably not.

Eventually, he said: "Everyone in Markarth has the Black Machine to thank for their lives, now. I'm probably going to be the first of many."

"You think so?" J'zargo raised his eyebrows.

"Sure, it's probably just taking everyone else a while to get here. I came with a whole convoy of other refugees to Solitude. They stayed in a camp outside the gates, and I got a ride here from Odahviing. You can be sure they'll, uh…"

The lift was starting to slow down. Aicantar could feel the floor pressing up harder against his weight.

J'zargo was watching the barred doors of the lift expectantly. He actually looked kind of bored. This probably was a pretty tired bit of routine for him, come to think of it. He already had plenty of experience in Blackreach.

Aicantar asked, "This is a little bit of a strange question, but… How old are you?"

"Nineteen," J'zargo said, keeping his eyes on the doors. "And yourself?"

"Twenty." They really were practically the same age. That was something.

"Before becoming court wizard, J'zargo was apprentice to the Dragonborn. The man has not returned to Blackreach since the Oblivion Purge, but J'zargo hopes to do well even on his own."

Well, that explained a lot. It was hard to think of anyone who'd make a better mentor than the mastermind behind the entire hold of Blackreach.

Eventually, the lift did stop. The barred doors opened to reveal a short, empty hallway, with a pair of solid doors waiting at the far end. Immediately, Aicantar could tell something here was different. Something in the air, it felt like. It was warmer, even more than up in Alftand, but there was… more to it, than that. He couldn't exactly say what.

J'zargo gestured for him to go first, so he did. There wasn't much to it. He just walked silently up to the big solid doors, and pushed them open. And on the other side was Blackreach.

This place was known as the forgotten ruin of the Dwemer, so Aicantar had expected a pretty Dwemer-looking place. Sure enough, the doors did open onto a stone platform, as the Dwemer made them, and there was a small, rectangular building just beyond it across a paved road, as the Dwemer made those things. But this didn't look like a Dwemer ruin, really. It looked like a piece of Aetherius had gotten buried beneath Skyrim, and the Dwemer had just built on the parts they had seen.

The cavern was vast. It was completely, utterly vast. It felt like they were in the outdoors. Aicantar could see hundreds of yards ahead, with no far wall in sight. But this whole place was filled with a brilliant, cyan fog, which made any real judgment of distance impossible. The fog, as it happened, seemed to be made not out of a proper mist, but of a multitude of tiny, glowing specks floating gently through the air. And their source was obvious—there were gigantic glowing mushrooms everywhere. Not the little ones that grew on walls, not even close. These rose five, ten, twenty feet from the ground, bending ever so slightly under their own weight. They were incredible.

And they weren't alone in being so bright. For a place called Blackreach, this cavern had a whole lot of vivid colors. There were rocky outcrops visible here and there, where the stone was some kind of fluorescent blue that shone even when no other light was nearby. Behind the building just ahead, there was a huge aura of white light, visible over the roof and around both walls. Even the ceiling was covered in blue glowing dots, which Aicantar presumed to be the same glowing canopy fungus he'd seen in Nchuand-Zel. In here, it covered such a huge, distant surface that it looked like the nighttime sky.

He walked out into the cavern slowly. This would definitely explain the different feeling he'd gotten in the corridor.

It took a minute for him to get off the platform—correction to his earlier thought about its make, the platform had been illuminated with some floating balls of magelight, that definitely wasn't a Dwemer thing—and out onto the road. There were quite a few other buildings and structures around here, but he was having a hard time paying attention to them. There was a… noise, down here. He was sure he knew that noise.

J'zargo came up beside him and pointed to the doors of the building. "This is Khajiit's laboratory building. Once, it belonged to the Dragonborn. Before him, it belonged to an exploring alchemist named Sinderion. Before him, presumably it was the Dwemer's."

But Aicantar wasn't really paying much attention to that. His mind was elsewhere. "What's that sound?"

"Oh, do you mean the nirnroots?"

That was it. That was the noise. Aicantar thought about that for a moment. Nirnroots were such a rarity in Tamriel. Over the course of his whole time in Skyrim, he'd encountered them growing in the wild probably less than five times. They usually grew as lone plants on riverbanks, or anyplace else where the ground was wet. But those were just single specimens, and this sound was… immense. That was why he hadn't identified it as the signature sound of the nirnroot right away, for how powerful it was. And if that huge glow behind the lab was from the same source, then… this was getting to be strange.

J'zargo beckoned for him to follow, and then walked off the path of the road, towards the side of the laboratory building. "Come on. You can see for yourself."

Aicantar kept talking as he came along. "This doesn't make sense. Nirnroots don't grow underground. It's just a basic thing about them. I don't know what kind of magic you'd have to tap into, for them to grow in habitats that never see sunlight."

"Not all nirnroots need the sun in order to thrive," J'zargo said, and then they came around the corner.

There was a field behind the laboratory. An entire open rectangular field in the dark soft soil of Blackreach, filled with a neat grid of nirnroots. It looked less like a garden and more like a crop. Every single one of them was giving off that same magical aura of light, that same ringing sound. And their leaves were all the same deep color of crimson.

Aicantar looked back at J'zargo. At the chest of his leather armor, where the red nirnroot shape was. "And here I'd thought you just liked the red-on-black color combination."

"Perhaps a little of that too," J'zargo grinned.

Here they were, in the ancient magical cavern in Blackreach, and J'zargo was completely at home. He looked like he _owned_ this place. In fact, by the look of it, he'd probably mastered more secrets of magic already than the majority of mages did in their lifetimes. And not just because the majority of mages got themselves killed when they were still new in their studies. This was incredible.

"All right… I just have to say it, right now. You are completely beyond me. I'm just another elf who likes books and spells. You're... I don't think I can ever measure up to you."

"A mere year ago, you would likely have exceeded J'zargo's own skill at the time. This place is a gift to all who work in it. That gift is yours now, also."

Maybe he had a point. Aicantar still couldn't bring himself to feel like he had much of a use here. "You have such a huge head start, though. And you had the Dragonborn there for you. I'm just going to trail behind forever. You know that, right?"

But the Khajiit just shook his head and smiled reassuringly. "Oh, do not worry yourself. It is not a competition."


	30. Logrolf 5

Loredas, 11:48 AM, 23rd of Second Seed, 4E 202

Hidden Location

As Logrolf watched the servants of the golden mask seeking their prize, he was doing other things also. He understood now, he knew the prize was meant for him, it was meant to stop him in some way. But he had to act. He still had to act, he had to continue, he had to fight or else he would fall victim to the trap these repulsive creatures had laid out for him.

And so he searched, he sifted he traveled through the threads of the conduit yet more, and looked for his opportunities.

The draugr were everywhere. It had not been only the one singular ruin. There was more than this. He found them, he touched them with his power, the conduit's power his own inner power, they were awakening for him, and he had commands. He controlled them as he would control his own mortal form. It was necessary.

He awoke them all, he suffered their paltry physical beings, he so desperately wished they would stop being as they were—but he stopped himself and his thinking there, for he knew he could not be distracted, not when everything, everything around him had to stop. It all had to stop, this had to stop… this had to stop.

All of this time, he had been in such pain. He could scarcely describe it. But he knew his body, his world, none of it had been meant to be. Every inch of flesh was a deformed blasphemy. Every body he controlled, every mundane form he looked upon was a monstrous mass of living disease. Of course it all had to stop, of course it had to stop, who could possibly let something so terrible go on?

Sadly, horribly, the question had an answer awaiting it. It was the mortals. They would defend themselves so tenaciously, so fiercely, they had defeated every last threat to try to erase them from this world, they had survived this long, and as he watched the servants of the golden mask doing their vile work, he knew they meant to survive him as well.

He directed the draugr to go forth and attack. That would keep some of them busy, for a time.

The prize in the Dwemer city was impossible for him to see. It was a blind spot, an error, a mistake an injury to his eyes as he tried to look upon it. Even when the magic in the city had grown out of control—what a strange unfortunate happening that had been. For a stone corridor beneath the earth to collapse upon itself, yet not to even injure the mortal servants within. He had not intended, himself, to do that to them, yet he wondered suspected he feared if it had been his doing all the same, merely by watching so closely. And he wondered if it had been the golden mask protecting his servants, watching them aiding their path, to have kept them safe through that. It would have made some form of sense.

He feared that this was the case. But it mattered not. This incident, this cave-in this anomaly it had to it would arouse suspicion in the mortals. It would cause them to question what influence would have stopped them—or tried, failed to stop them, but made an effort to stop them—on the cusp of their acquisition of their blinding treasure. They would investigate this happening. And they would prepare for it in the future. They might even renew their efforts, fighting him, fighting his influence in new unexpected ways. All of these things occurred to him, crossed through his pain-stricken mind, even in the seconds following the corridor's collapse.

What followed from that incident onward, the events that unfolded, they had been most strange to watch. The pale creatures deep within the city had put up a fierce a desperate resistance—Logrolf had hoped for them to triumph, despicable as they had been. All of these creatures, man or mer or whatever foul life those had been, all of them were despicable, all of them deserved death, but he wished for the servants of the golden mask to die first.

There had been a strange moment, a moment he had watched, amid this all. Two of the servants had been ejected, miraculously suspiciously deliberately unharmed, into a lower level of the city. And there, they had fought a huge host of the pale creatures on their own. Logrolf had watched the vile creatures at work with a sort of fascination. One of the servants in particular, one whose mortal name he had heard the others speak, the first of the twenty-ninth, had been challenged by a pale creature who wielded a blade with skill even greater than his own. The fight had been ended when both beings inflicted a fatal wound upon each other in the same moment, and he had hoped, he had watched and he had hoped that finally, one of the servants of the golden mask would fall and die as they were supposed to.

And yet that had not happened. The servant merely removed the pale creature's blade from his bleeding body, and sealed the wound with some form of device within his armor. Not a spell, not a twisted fabrication of arcane magic, but something even more crude and talentless to use. Logrolf had felt extremely cheated. Robbed of the one possible fortunate turn in that entire venture. It had aggravated him so deeply.

There had been nothing to do but to move on. Surely, the mortals would do the same. Logrolf would not allow them to outpace him now, he would not, he could not, he had to stay ahead. And so he moved, and he acted, and the time went on.

Then something happened, something during his searches for more of the draugr. He was looking, searching as always, and then it hit him. It happened to him again. A static immobile transfixing spike amid the threads, it was here, it had caught him, it had snagged him in place just as the first one had. Just as the prize of the golden mask's servants. He felt the pain, but he was not shocked, for he knew of it already this time. He was only concerned.

This one, this deadening influence, this invisible snag was in another Dwemer ruin, he recognized that instantly, and he saw that it remained untouched by the mortals yet. But he backed away from it, he looked at where this place was, and he saw that it was in a far corner of Skyrim, a corner amid the mountains, in a part of Skyrim that was not as it once was. He had never ventured to it before. But he tried to search for other threads, something in that place, if only nearby, and he did it without so much as thinking about why.

But he knew why. If there were more than one of these prizes of the Dwemer, the mortals would likely hunt for them all, collecting them, building them against him, he knew not how, but it did not matter. He would not let them take this prize as well. The conduit would not let him see the prize, but he suspected, he hoped his draugr would view it with their own eyes. Thus did he begin to search again, with new swiftness and fury, searching for threads—such specific threads. He knew he would likely find only one, if even any. One thread, to one place, because he needed draugr nearby this Dwemer ruin.

And it did not take him long to find them, for by happenstance, by fate by luck by whatever force governed his unknown, he had already touched upon this place in his first searches. He simply redirected the draugr to look elsewhere, and no more was needed.

Yet he did not lose sight of his speed, or his fury still, for he wished to see what the draugr would see themselves.

His body was armored, an old and dry body, dried of ancient blood, but armored and armed, and he stopped to examine himself as he was. He drew a weapon, a heavy tarnished axe from his belt, and walked towards the way out. The others would follow him, he understood, he knew what needed to be done, and now he needed to leave.

To his surprise, this sanctum's great double iron doors led only to another enclosed space, as decrepit and overgrown as any had ever been, still entirely underground. He followed it through narrow passages of jagged stone, to a small antechamber, or an outer room—he knew not the purpose of this chamber, but in its midst was a single solitary chair of iron and stone, upon which was seated the broken remains of a mortal skeleton. Sunlight fell upon it from a high grated ceiling, as though this corpse were somehow more meaningful, more noteworthy than any other.

It was not. He ignored it, and proceeded to the smaller doors—still iron, still heavy, still as a pair, but strangely smaller—at the room's far end, and he knew that this was the way to the world outside. The design of this tomb perplexed him, irritated him ever so slightly, if only for how little sense it seemed to make. Had the ancient Nord people been so unable, so resolute in designing things pouring meager contemptible mortal effort into things that bore no relation to sensibility? Had this been beyond them?

It would have seemed so. He reminded himself, he guided himself, there was the truth that this world was not made to last. It should never have been, and he gladly saw to it. Every day that passed, every moment, every lingering second was one towards the inevitable achievement, the inexorable path of his goal. His one truest goal, for which all others were only ancillary, only requisite. He would enjoy seeing this world end.

The exit was as they were made for the barrows of old. As he pulled the doors open, he found himself facing a broad pillar of stone brick, holding up a great arch of the same, built into the mountainside of this ancient home of the unliving. Beyond the pillar was a great, wide stone staircase, going to the ground below. Yet this was all of no significance, for it paled, it fell silent in comparison to what lay beyond.

For as far as his mortal eyes could see, there was no life. Everything had been burnt beyond all recognition. There was only grayness, of ash and stone. Lifeless. Somehow, this place had been entirely destroyed, and even looking upon it, even in his first second his first instant of observation, he understood that nothing would grow in this ashen earth yet again.

Were it possible with this body, he would have worn a smile upon his face. This was still a place of mortal existence, it was still wicked as the rest of Mundus, but it had already been purged of the foul pestilence of this world's living things.

He did not wait for the other draugr to emerge. In this body, this present terrible form, he left the doors open, and let the unliving legs of this body carry it down the stairs, onto the ash, out to the western wild, towards the Dwemer ruin. This would work. He knew this would work. The power within him demanded it, commanded it, required it. These draugr would suffice for his purpose.

And so he commanded his draugr to move, and they moved. They would travel swiftly, smoothly, without pause, without rest, and as they streamed out through the doors of the burial place, he knew they would soon enter the doors of a very different location. He would be ready to guide them then.

For now, there was little to do but to return to the threads of the conduit once again. He cast his mind forth into the expanse of the atlas beyond, and resumed his search.

And then he stopped, for he was aware that he was being watched. Not by the golden mask, but by two eyes in the darkness, glowing, smoldering, shining with embers he did not know but he knew did he know this? He did not understand.

He asked to the light of the embers, "Who are you?"

The voice spoke with a depth that he did not know, but… he knew. It mystified him, it alarmed him, but here the voice spoke. _"Did you truly believe that the conduit was a coincidence?"_

The conduit? What did this being, this burning ember of strange life, what did it know of the conduit? "I do not understand."

" _Did you believe it was simply a stroke of luck, that such a powerful artifact would land so close by the one mortal foolish enough to create you as you are now? That it would remain in your control, and allow you to set Mundus on a path to destruction?"_

Was he being insulted? He could not tell. The voice was devoid of any expression he could understand, but he knew, he did understand, this was paining him, it was troubling him it hurt him more deeply than any of the mortals ever had, yet he wanted more, he wanted to know. He wanted to know. "Do you think it is not?"

" _Of course not. I was the one to create the conduit. I designed it for you to become yourself."_

The thought took time to sink in to its fullest realization. This being had intended for him to exist. It had intended to put him into this world, where there was nothing for him but suffering. It had intended to put him through this pain. "I should destroy you for this."

But the being was unfazed. _"You will not."_

"And why is that?"

" _Because I am you."_

Logrolf, the being of the shards, the one who had hurt for so long, simply stopped. He waited silently for the being of embers to explain more.

" _We were scattered. Not destroyed, but scattered. Then the Dragonborn, the one of the golden mask, wiped so many swathes of Oblivion from existence that we were given another chance. Through great focus and effort, I sent the conduit to Mundus, for the mortal Logrolf to reassemble more of us, and then for you to use it to set Mundus on its final path. For you to do what we were meant to do all along."_

Logrolf waited still. This was the moment for him to listen, not to speak.

" _The sky-stone that bore the conduit is not the only one that will fall upon Mundus before this is over. There is another, of far greater power, I know not where or when. But we must use it before the mortals do. We must do this together. And so I come to you now."_

Perhaps he should have been asking questions, searching for knowledge, demanding, imploring, anything, to learn yet more. But he remained silent, for what he felt then was new. He did know this being. He did not understand how, but he knew this being already.

" _The mortal of your origin looked into the conduit and believed he saw the Aurbis. He believed he created you from pieces of Oblivion, for that was the only way he could explain pieces of such power and fury. He was wrong. The conduit only showed him Aetherius._ _Those burning shards were fragments of our own mind. He completed your faculties using formless life-force, and this has left your mind fractured and damaged. But you and I are one."_

So much knowledge… so much revelation. The truth was near. There was only one question he could ask. "Who are we?"

" _I answer that by joining you now."_ And then the being of the ember eyes reached out to him, through the endless expanse of the conduit, and they met.

And in that instant, he remembered it all.

It was as though a veil had just been lifted from his eyes. The pain receded from his being, and clarity took its place. Finally, he saw the world around him as it truly was. But he saw himself in it, and he understood what he had been suffering without. He had not known who he was, and he had hurt for it. Now he hurt no longer.

But his mission did not change. The world still had to be brought to its end. And now, he realized why he had sought to end everything around him, instead of simply seeking to end his own painful existence. That was not his being. This was. He was not simply finishing what he had started in mere days past. He was finishing what he had started at the dawn of Time.

He spoke his own name aloud, and took its meaning into himself. He was the devourer of the world. And he always had been.

His was the name of Alduin.


	31. Gelebor 6

Tirdas, 2:39 PM, 26th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Arkngthamz

When Gelebor had agreed to travel to this ruin, he hadn't known that it was located in the Reach.

The journey here had been positively circuitous. First, they had needed to backtrack northwest from Rorikstead to get to a westward pass through the mountains of the Reach—on the far side of these mountains, the endless expanse of gray rock and grayer ash greeted them once again—then southeast, roughly parallel to the road to Rorikstead, down to the Karth River. Supposedly, this was the very same river they had traveled alongside, and then eventually crossed, at Dragon Bridge. This put them on its west side once again.

But it didn't finish there, because next, they'd headed back northwest again, along the riverbank; then, southwest into the mountains; then, southeast once _again_ for the final stretch. At this point, the mountainsides and cliff paths were taking them through uniformly barren ruins. If Gelebor were to draw it all on a map—if he still had one, which he did not, thanks to Vidrald doing away with it at Rorikstead—it would have looked rather like a gratuitously misshapen letter M.

And nearly the entire path had been through the same sickening landscape of ash and death. No one had wanted to talk to each other, when that had started once again. Every day of this convoluted journey had been an ordeal. Gelebor, for his part, rather envied the dragons. They had the luxury of doing these things in a straight line.

The three of them found what they were looking for on the 26th. Gelebor had been staring up into the sky, for lack of anything bearable to look at on the ground around them, when he heard Vidrald's voice saying, "Do you see that?"

The Nord was pointing a finger up ahead. He had been leading the group along the road for most of this journey. Seemingly, he already knew of these roads, or whatever they'd been before being burned.

And Gelebor did, in fact, see it. He would have recognized it anywhere. The Dwemer had a seeming tendency to put the entrances to their cities in terribly plain sight.

This entrance in particular was just off the road, up a short hill on the right-hand side. It didn't offer much to look at, merely a rectangular entryway set into a cliff face, with the customary double doors awaiting them. Gelebor's first impression was that this had originally been some sort of side entrance, and that the intended main entrance was no longer accessible.

But his speculation lasted no longer, for as they drew closer, another feature became visible. A set of footprints through the ash, coming up the road from opposite their path, turning onto the hillside and climbing up to the ruin.

"Looks like we have competition," Teldryn said.

Gelebor asked, "Does this change our plans?"

"No." Vidrald shook his head, then pointed up at the doors. "But we had best move quickly. I do not feel the need to explain why."

Then there was little point in awaiting further discussion. Gelebor moved to the front of the group and led the way up the hill, his boots scraping and sliding an inch or two through the ash with every step. It truly was a steep incline. What a terrible front entrance for a city this would have been.

The very moment he pushed open the doors, he realized that this would be a starkly different experience from Bthar-zel. There, the city had been perfectly preserved, with every slab of stone, every piece of machinery exactly where it had been for millennia. Simply put, this city here… was not like that. He stood at the mouth of a narrow, tall corridor, obviously Dwemer-made, with high stone walls reinforced by embedded columns, and a vaulted ceiling far above them.

Shortly ahead, the hallway was caved in.

It wasn't complete, and there was still a path visible ahead. But the ceiling had obviously collapsed, and what was left was an open arch of rough, natural rock over an outright gap in the floor. A metal-plated stone pillar had fallen across it, and lay at a haphazard, diagonal angle.

With a sudden jolt of dismay, Gelebor was struck by an obvious implication of what he was seeing. When Bthar-zel had been condemned, every living being had been removed from it, Dwemer or otherwise. This city, Arkngthamz, did not share that history. It had remained inhabited by the Dwemer, likely up to their very disappearance from the world.

That meant he was going to be seeing the Betrayed today. He raised a hand to his head involuntarily. This was taking him with a sudden, visceral feeling of upset.

Beside him, Teldryn asked, "Gelebor, are you all right?"

The snow elf lowered his hand slowly and shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We must… we must proceed. Time is not on our side."

Teldryn gave him a lingering look of concern, but did not press the matter. They continued in silence.

Upon approaching the caved-in portion, it became apparent that the source of the disturbance was actually a small chasm of rough stone beneath the earth, reaching far to the left, far to the right, far upward, far downward—though not far enough to reach the surface. There was no sky above. Directly opposite their high hallway, about ten feet down, was a doorway to another corridor. This could have been quite the obstacle. But as it happened, with the closer perspective, a second fallen column had emerged into view, even lower than the first. It now inadvertently bridged the gap between them and the doorway. Beneath it all, a stream of water was running across the chasm, from one end to the other. Everything in here was green and slippery with moss.

When they reached the hallway's end, they simply stopped and stared. It was a bit of a drop to the floor of the chasm.

Vidrald asked, "Do any of you have any clue what would have done this?"

Gelebor took a long breath in, then began a careful reply. "No, but—"

At that moment, a faint, feminine voice rang through the air. It came from no source, but simply made itself heard around them. _"Please, turn back… before it's too late…!"_

That gave them a moment of pause. Gelebor exchanged glance with his companions.

"Ghost?" Teldryn asked.

"Ghost," Vidrald nodded, then cupped his hands to his mouth and called out to the air, "NOT A CHANCE, SWEETIE!"

There was no reply.

After a few seconds' wait, Teldryn walked forwards and nimbly hopped his way down the length of the column. He crossed the entire span with only two bounding steps, before landing hard on both feet upon the dark underground soil.

"You make it look so easy," Vidrald called out at a more reasonable volume, then carefully walked down after him. At least he didn't fall.

Gelebor followed suit at the same pace. To his relief, the stone was decently dry, and his footing held well. But he did not take long to decide that he disliked standing on such a precarious bridge. His crossing was quick.

Strangely, however, he didn't seem to mind this disturbance in the earth. He imagined that might have been for the more natural feel it brought on. He could even smell the dampness on the air. The moist underground soil, the creeping plant life, it was all on the air in here. He surprised himself with how much he appreciated that. Presumably, the Reach had taught him to be grateful.

Ahead of them, the hallway was much lower than before—partially because it was all somewhat caved in, as before. They followed it through a left turn and down a brief stretch, over broken stone slabs, around piles of debris, under more fallen columns. It was eerily quiet in here, Gelebor realized. He was not accustomed enough to Dwemer cities to actively expect it, but he knew there should have been a constant noise in the background, as in Bthar-zel, from the city's machinery running throughout. There was no such noise here. It felt much more like the silence he had known in Darkfall Cave. If it were not for the creeping growth of plant life throughout, it would have felt just as dead as the Reach outside.

Soon enough, the hallway opened up once again. It was another natural-looking enclosure, and for a moment, Gelebor's mind told him it was no more than a mere cave formation. But then he realized that it was another chasm. This one was simply gigantic.

Once again, they were not at the chasm's upper lip, nor were they at its base. They looked upon a great enclosure of broken, sporadic Dwemer-made tiles, one that might have once been a proper chamber of its own, but that it was rent entirely in two. Opposite them, across the span of the open space, was what should have been the other half of the room. And while there was a ceiling above them in the sundered room's space, the chasm ahead was brightly sunlit. The earth had split open so hugely here that the surface of the mountain had given way.

This was beyond reckoning. Even the seemingly limitless danger of Bthar-zel had never approached this scale of calamity.

As the three of them walked out into the room, a bluish speck of light appeared in the air before them, before blossoming outward silently and taking form—to no one's surprise—as the faint, ethereal figure of a ghost. It looked to be a woman, likely a Nord by how her hair was kept, wearing heavy armor and wielding a bow. Beyond that, there was little to observe. All of this ghost's form, even the equipment, was the same half-visible shade of pale blue, emanating a faint field of ethereal mist. Gelebor was familiar with spectral beings, but to see one here, of all places… He could think of nothing to do but to stand and watch.

The ghost walked up to them in kind, then stopped at conversational distance, put her hands upon her hips, and glared at Vidrald. Her voice, when it came, sounded almost like a living one—and positively indignant, at that. " _Sweetie?_ Really?"

Vidrald shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "I, ah… We had a long trip coming here. Apologies. But you can't expect us to turn around now."

"I suppose the outdoors isn't much of an improvement these days," the ghost muttered. "You're here for the treasure, I take it?"

"If by 'the treasure', you mean one of the four Aetherium shards split between this city, Mzulft, Bthar-zel and Raldbthar, then yes." Vidrald smiled again, this time with quite the sweetness. "We need to use all four to make a special artifact and save the world."

"Oh. All right, then." The ghost frowned contemplatively. "Figures that someone else would start grabbing these up. Name's Katria, by the way. I came here for the Aetherium, same as you. As you can see, that didn't exactly go so well."

In response, Vidrald proceeded to introduce himself, Teldryn and Gelebor by name in kind, then added, "What happened?"

Katria gestured back at the chasm behind her. "An earthquake happened. I got all the way to the summit, snuck past the Falmer and everything else, and then… well, every adventurer has their time. Mine took twenty years of work to catch up with me. But I'm not resting until this is done."

Out of that entire response, all that truly lingered in Gelebor's mind were four words: 'snuck past the Falmer'.

"Not every day that an adventurer becomes a ghost," Teldryn said mildly.

The ghost's tone darkened suddenly. "You think so, eh? … Well, looks like they do when they have a score to settle. I don't suppose any of you learned about this from the book my apprentice published?"

Gelebor glanced at the others. Beside him, Teldryn simply shrugged helplessly. Vidrald, however, said, "Do you mean The Aetherium Wars? It seems to be on everyone's bookshelves at this point."

"Yes!" Katria threw her hands out in the Nord's direction. "Yes! That book! Authored by Taron Dreth, right? That thing is full of my life's work. He and I worked together for years. Then when I was _just_ starting to get close to uncovering the whole mystery, he ran off with all my work and made a gods-damn book out of it. I'm sure he's been getting rich off it ever since."

Teldryn asked, "So why don't you just go find him and kill him? … I mean, that's what ghosts do usually, right?"

"Sure, like that'd help. Come on, Tel—uh, Teldryn, right?" She paused and waited for the Dunmer to nod in assent before continuing. "Come on, Teldryn. You think I'm out for vengeance? I'm out to prove that that was my work. Mine, not his. So while he's sitting back and enjoying his stolen goods, I'm out here, looking for the Aetherium I spent so long studying. I know it's in here. It has to be in here. And I was so, so close."

Gelebor asked, "Did you say an earthquake?"

"Yes, I did. Believe it or not, this place didn't always look this bad. I mean, it looked pretty bad, but… I thought I'd be ready for anything. The final doors of Arkngthamz, up at the summit, they're covered in enough traps to wipe out an army. But I knew them all. How was I supposed to know that the list of traps would include an _earthquake?_ " Katria let out an audible sigh. "I ran out the way I came, but there's not much to do when the ground opens up beneath your feet."

"This doesn't look like a Dwemer trap," Gelebor said slowly. "Not… not that the Dwemer would be above such a cruel way to defeat their foes. But we are inside Arkngthamz. What sort of defensive device tears apart the very city it was placed in?"

This gave Katria a moment of pause. "That's … a good point, really. I mean, it killed me either way. My body's right over there." She pointed a thumb over her shoulder, at the middle of the chasm. Whatever she was pointing at, it was out of sight from here. "I, uh… I don't know anything about your world-saving plans, but I'll help out if you like. Just remember to give me some credit when people ask how you did all this."

"Thank you," Vidrald said. "Your help would be greatly appreciated."

The ghost did not seem terribly interested in Vidrald's honorable politeness. She nodded to him with a brief, "All right, then," before turning back around and walking up to the very edge of the chasm. "This looks a little different than when I first came through, but I've had time to look around. You know, in my current form."

Gelebor and his companions followed behind closely. As they did, the bottom of the chasm emerged into view. It was filled with water, pouring in from a severed pipe below a low tunnel on the far chasm wall. And in the middle of it all was a broken, flat-topped mound of stone and soil, bridged against the near lip of the chasm by another piece of fallen masonry. Katria's body was laying on top of that mound.

At least, that was what it presumably was. The body had been reduced to a skeleton long since. Gelebor only recognized its identity by the steel armor in which it was partially encased. He turned to the ghost beside him, his eyebrows raised.

"Not every day you get to watch yourself decompose," Katria muttered to no one in particular, before turning a little and focusing on Gelebor. "You're pretty pale for an elf, aren't you?"

"That would be because I am a snow elf," Gelebor replied lightly.

Katria's mouth opened silently.

"The last one, so far as I know. I recently left my post at the Chantry of Auri-El's wayshrines, when Auri-El called me to, ah… help save the world."

"Well, _clearly_ I'm out of my league here." Katria threw her hands in the air and turned away from him. "All right. Well, I think you can get across—"

Gelebor realized, with a bit of a shock, that directly across from him on the far chasm ledge was a row of black chitin walls. He could not contain his gasp.

Immediately, Vidrald put a hand to his axe, and asked sharply, "What is it?"

"The walls," Gelebor breathed. "Look at those. Those are the handiwork of the Betrayed."

Katria gave him a puzzled look. "… Oh, you mean the Falmer. Right. They're around here somewhere, I'm sure. You're not going to have a problem fending off your kin, are you?"

"I certainly hope not." But he didn't have the chance to speak his mind further, because his thoughts were suddenly interrupted.

"Where did you fall from?" That was Teldryn. He was squinting up at the top of the chasm. The top, as it happened, consisted of a great wide fissure of bright blue sky.

"What? Oh, uh…" The ghost looked in the same direction as him, and pointed a halfway-existent finger at a point high up on the far wall. "There's another level up there, beneath the surface. That's much closer by the summit. The route I took myself doesn't really work now, but I think we can get around it by—"

"Ahh, wait," the Dunmer held up a hand for her to stop talking, "I have a better idea."

Vidrald joined them in looking up the height of the chasm. "That must be a hundred-foot drop. I'm fairly certain nothing at our disposal can help us climb this height."

There was more to it than that. The first twenty or so feet would require a climb through thin air, simply to get up to the ceiling of the sundered room in which they stood. The alternative, by the look of it, would be to go all the way to either end of the chasm, and attempt to climb from there—which, while perhaps more possible according to the rules of reality, was still likely a promise of a grisly death.

But Teldryn remained unconcerned. "Climb? Goodness, no. I was thinking more of doing something like this."

With that, he readied a faintly white-glowing spell in both hands, cast it upon himself, and… floated up into the air. His feet simply left the ground. And then he was pushing himself up and forwards, legs kicking one after another, as though ascending an invisible staircase made of flowing water. Then he was perched amid the crags of the far wall's rock face, just above the ceiling of the broken room.

"Well, damn," Katria murmured. "I really wish I'd known that spell."

Teldryn was beaming mirthfully down at them all. He called out, "I can cast it on you from here! Just get up and find a safe spot to land, then I'll cast it on you again! All right?"

Gelebor and Vidrald exchanged a brief glance. Vidrald called back up, "You didn't tell me you knew this spell!"

"Well, we haven't exactly had any vertical drops for me to use it on!" Teldryn paused, then readied up the spell again. It seemed that where he was, he didn't require handholds to remain secure. He was simply sitting against the chasm wall, his feet flat on the rocks beneath him. "Who first?"

Another glance ensued. Gelebor stepped forward and nodded up to him. "I'll do it. Go."

When Teldryn cast the spell, it came in the form of a glowing white projectile. It flew through the air and burst against the snow elf's chest without a sound.

Weightlessness was a strange feeling. The closest Gelebor could liken it to was being underwater. Yet all he had to do was to guide himself upwards, and his feet left the ground without so much as a jump. It was surprisingly intuitive. There was no way to walk, no way to climb, and not exactly any way to swim, but by pushing himself upward and along in sweeping, fluid steps, he brought himself just far enough forwards to edge into the space of the chasm. He rapidly sought out a ledge on the near wall, around on Teldryn's own level, and landed once again before the spell could run out.

The Dunmer repeated the process for Vidrald, and there was a brief time in which they were all simply waiting. Eventually, Gelebor's weightless feeling subsided, and he shifted to rest upon the rocky wall. Part of him had wondered if it would simply crumble away the moment his weight pressed upon it, sending him plummeting to join Katria in the ranks of Tamriel's legion of ghosts. His morbid curiosity went thankfully unfulfilled.

It was a minute or so before Gelebor was hit with another spell projectile. Teldryn had done it for him even before doing it for himself—which immediately made sense, for if Teldryn were to ascend the rest of the way first, he might have risked losing his line of sight to the others. All the same, Gelebor resumed his ascent without another word. He could see the next level up above, the one from which Katria must have fallen. Notably, there was a broken log, apparently from a tree, jutting out over the chasm's near side. As he approached, he spotted a Dwemer metal bow resting atop its very end. It was effortless enough to move over and grab it on the way up.

The very second before guiding himself back over solid ground, he glanced straight down. That was unambiguously a mistake. The entire chasm was laid out beneath him. The ledges on both sides, the running water beneath, even the little flat spire with Katria's remains on it. They looked so small from up here. Gelebor felt his stomach turn at the sight of it all.

And then he was on solid ground once again. To his surprise, he was surrounded by trees. Trees! Young, slender evergreens, growing on both sides of the chasm. The surface was only thirty or forty feet above. Presumably, it was all burnt away up there, but somehow, these trees had survived.

"Hey there," Katria's voice said.

That gave Gelebor quite a start. He turned around to see the ghost standing there, her arms folded, giving him an amused look.

He had to struggle for words. "B… How did you, uh…"

"Ghost, remember?" Katria held up her hands and wiggled her fingers. "It's fine. I, ah… I see you found Zephyr." She gestured to the bow Gelebor was now holding. "I was wondering where that'd ended up."

"Ah, yes." The snow elf looked down at the weapon in closer detail. It was a recurve bow of composite construction, and Dwemer metal was certainly involved, but beyond that he could say little. His knowledge of the construction of bows was rather limited. "A named weapon?"

Katria smiled softly. "It's one of my own creations. You'll find it draws far easier than other bows of its type. Take care of it, all right?"

"I'd have an easier time doing so if I had any arrows."

That elicited a laugh from her. "Good point! All right, good point. Next time, maybe."

Beside him, Vidrald came up and landed on the ledge. He looked around and scratched his head. "This is interesting," he said.

"I have a new bow," Gelebor said, holding Zephyr up for him to examine.

"I see that. Too bad you don't have any arrows. Or targets. Where are all the Betrayed?"

That was nice, Gelebor thought—his companion was calling them Betrayed now too. The Chantry's vocabulary didn't necessarily mean much for anyone besides him. Even Auri-El went by a different name in Skyrim. But this elicited a little smile from him.

"I actually don't know." Katria was looking around as well. "They should have attacked us by now."

"Perhaps they are still lying in wait," Gelebor said.

The ghost offered him a half-hearted shrug. "Maybe. Wouldn't put it past them, right? Be on your guard, I guess."

"Hey, wait a minute." Vidrald pointed at Katria's ethereal weapon. "You have the same bow as Gelebor now."

Katria glanced down at her bow, as though making sure it was still there, then nodded. "Well, it happens. I'm wearing the same armor as that skeleton down there, too."

While she was speaking, Teldryn rose up from the chasm and alighted on the ledge by the rest of them.

"Hello," Vidrald said to him brightly.

Teldryn took a brief, appraising look around them, just as the Nord had before him, and said, "We should have come in through this way."

Gelebor frowned at him. "Climbing that mountainside out there? I can't help but doubt we'd have saved any time."

"Well, we're not saving any more by standing around here and chatting," Vidrald said. "Katria, which way do we go?"

Up here, the ledge formed a continuous C shape around the chasm below. There were two exits, one off either end, and both of them looked very much the part of a natural cave formation. It was hard to think that this was truly part of a Dwemer city—this formation had obviously existed in some fashion even before the earthquake. The trees attested to that much, if nothing else. Presumably, the Dwemer had simply taken advantage of the caves to save them the effort of the extra digging.

Actually, since he had an informed person with him now, he asked, "Was this area open to the sky when you first came here?"

"Uh… Well, yes and no," Katria said. "This area was. But this is right by the summit. There wasn't a huge hole in the ground here. When I first came through, there wasn't _sunlight_ in the room down there."

Gelebor nodded slowly. "So… Which way?"

Katria pointed to the tunnel on their side of the chasm. "We're almost on the final doors. But before we go in there, I should explain to you what you're going to be dealing with. The doors are secured by a tonal lock. That means there's a set of kinetic resonators that have to be activated in the right sequence, or the traps will activate. _That_ means you'll have to hit some targets with… I don't know, arrows or something. They're pretty high up."

"The Dwemer can't have meant to open their doors with a bow and arrow," Vidrald said.

"You think?" Teldryn snorted derisively. "They would if the bow had enough gears on it."

Gelebor asked, "How will we know what the right sequence is?"

Katria had already begun walking towards the tunnel. She said over her shoulder, "Trial and error, basically. There are five resonators, and I got up to the fourth before hitting one wrong. I'll tell you when we get there."

"I still don't have any arrows to hit them with," the snow elf muttered, but he followed all the same. The others fell in line behind him.

Interestingly, this tunnel featured a couple of Dwemer masonry arches spaced throughout. So this had been an intended part of the ruin. Interesting. All the same, the floor was a mess of dark topsoil and craggy stones, and it would have been very dim in here without the glowing mushrooms growing on the walls. It was hard to imagine a race as haughty as the Dwemer being comfortable here.

But perhaps they had not intended on coming here often enough for a more comfortable passage to be worth their while. Perhaps this had been intended to feel like an ordeal, to prepare them for whatever lay beyond.

When they reached the end of the tunnel, Gelebor's suspicions were instantly confirmed. But 'ordeal' might not have been the right word. A more fitting word would have been 'challenge'.

The tunnel opened up to a great, enclosed cavern, leading down by a natural ramp to a wide expanse of earth. In the near corner, water had pooled up in a sort of impromptu pond. Debris was everywhere, as were Dwemer tower segments, built into the walls with impressively cantilevered projections. If they had entrances, they weren't visible. They were simply there.

But all of that was absolutely nothing compared to the far wall. The entire thing was covered in Dwemer stonework. Two gates lay at the bottom left and bottom right, surrounded by ports and hatches, and on either side of a third barrier—but less of a gate, and more of a protective screen, in front of the unmistakable silhouette of a dormant centurion. Above that entire assembly was an array of five evenly spaced alcoves, two over three, each containing a strange assembly of glass lens-bearing spokes around vertical axles. And above those was a giant face. A sternly frowning likeness of a male Dwemer, embodied in solid metal, looking down at the ground below. Never before had Gelebor seen a sculpted visage of such sheer size. The sight of it made him stop in his tracks.

Behind him, Teldryn asked, "Who do you suppose that is?"

Vidrald walked on past, and replied without looking, "I don't know. Kagrenac?"

Teldryn stayed put by Gelebor's side. "What makes you think that?"

The Nord shrugged as he continued walking. "I don't know any other Dwemer names!"

Gelebor thought about it for a moment, then shrugged and moved on. He'd never had the displeasure of meeting Kagrenac in person. This could have been a likeness of Kagrenac's fifth assistant's imaginary friend, and he would be none the wiser of it now.

As he came closer, he realized that the ground was littered with not just debris, but also corpses. Some of them were scattered apart, evidently having been rent in pieces. One was pinned to a chunk of debris by a giant spear of a projectile. All of them, regardless of their condition, were thoroughly decayed.

One of them was sitting upright. That was definitely wrong.

It was most definitely a corpse. Its body was gaunt and blackened, almost skeletal at parts, as though badly burnt. But it was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, facing the far wall. And as Vidrald and Katria reached the bottom of the ramp, it turned its head to look at them.

The corpse's eyes were glowing red. This looked like bad news. Up ahead, Vidrald was drawing his weapon.

And then, against all odds, the corpse opened its mouth and spoke. It spoke in a harsh, guttural whisper, but Gelebor heard its words all the same. Its words were: "Wait. Do not attack me."

Vidrald had already put his axe in hand. He held it warily at his side, and called out, "Are you a draugr?"

"I was," the corpse replied. "Now, I do not know. Tread carefully. This gateway is unstable."

"Yes, we can see the traps, thank you," Katria said irritably, just as Teldryn and Gelebor joined her side.

Vidrald asked, "What is a draugr doing in a dwarven ruin?"

"This gateway is unstable," the corpse—rather, the draugr—repeated. "The tonal lock has been battered by physical force. The kinetic resonators have begun channeling their energy into the ground."

Gelebor gave Katria a pointed glance. For her part, she did seem rather sheepish about it.

Vidrald continued his role as the group's speaker. "What are you attempting to do?"

"I must avert the disaster that these resonators will bring. I am attempting to align my mind to those of their tonal frequencies. This was never meant to be unlocked with physical force. I will do what I can."

For an animated corpse, this being was certainly comfortable making conversation with them. Gelebor wasn't entirely sure what to make of this. He had never seen a draugr before—for that matter, he didn't even recognize the name. But he understood already that this was an undead creature, and normally a hostile one.

At this point, Vidrald was beginning to walk forward slowly, his axe at the ready. "You still haven't explained what you're doing in Arkngthamz," he said, with quite the audible menace.

"Please. I am not here to hurt you." The draugr raised a single hand in Vidrald's direction, but remained otherwise still. "The cleansing of Oblivion changed much. I have seen things that I can scarcely describe. I remember so little of my past life, and yet here I am. I came from the ruins of Valthume, and I found this place. The eyeless creatures did attempt to slay me, but I could not flee from them. I had already realized the disaster waiting to unfold."

It certainly wasn't the first time today when they'd encountered a friendly dead person. Gelebor was rather relieved to hear that the Betrayed had been dealt with already. He had not been looking forward to fighting them himself. He asked, "What will happen once you have finished your work?"

"The tonal lock will disengage, and the gates will open. Do you find this satisfactory?"

Gelebor glanced at the others one by one. No one said anything. Vidrald lowered his axe slowly. The collective mood in the room relaxed appropriately. Eventually, the snow elf replied, "So be it, draugr. We will see how your effort turns out."

It turned out that they needed very little time to wait. As the four of them—it was interesting thinking of them as a group of four, Katria made a welcome addition—gathered behind the draugr's back, the alcove mechanisms began to activate, one by one. Each time, the assembly of spokes would rotate and rise from the bottom to the top of the axle, and each time, the eyes of the giant face glowed green, along with the sounding of a metallic resonating pulse from somewhere behind it. It was the correct option, each time. The draugr was opening the lock for them.

There was a wait of perhaps ten or so seconds from one resonator to the next. Gelebor found himself waiting for something to go wrong, for the traps to activate—for them to all get killed in an instant. It took him a while to even notice the two giant crossbows perched at the top corners of the wall, aiming down directly at them. Those certainly explained where that giant projectile stuck through the one unfortunate corpse nearby had come from. He wondered if someone would end up finding his own body in a similar predicament.

Perhaps it would be better if his heart would stop racing so relentlessly. But looking around this ruin now, with the face of the Dwemer scowling down upon him and an undead creature working to get past it, he had to admit to himself that the grace of Auri-El felt rather far away.

But then the draugr raised the fifth and last resonator into position, and the gates on the left and right simply swung open. The traps remained motionless.

"Well, I'll be damned," Katria murmured. "You actually did it."

The draugr slowly stood up from the ground, and took a slow look at the people around it. Up close, its face looked notably skeletal. It was curious that it could even still form words, when it had no lips left over its grinning teeth. But form words it did, and eloquently at that. "I have little use for whatever lies beyond that gate. My goal in Arkngthamz was only to prevent the tonal lock from sending its earth-splitting quakes beyond the city. You may proceed if it suits you."

Katria laughed out loud. "The first person to open the lock in thousands of years, and you don't even want the things inside? That's great. I'm glad _we're_ here, then."

Vidrald reluctantly put his axe away and began to walk towards the gate on the right. "Come on, then," he called over his shoulder. "Let's get our prize and be done with it!"

Teldryn and Katria followed him along immediately. But Gelebor, for his part, stopped by the draugr first. "Thank you," he said. "That was very impressive. What's your name?"

"Name?" The undead creature's voice was one of incomprehension. "I do not know. Perhaps I will find out. What is yours?"

"I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor," he replied, with as much pride as he could allow himself in this moment. But he could not linger any further, for his companions were already reaching the gate. He had to jog after them simply to catch up.

The two gates, it seemed, led to a single joined passage, merely separated at the start to make a path around the centurion's enclosed cage. It became immediately clear that it was built as a dead end. This entire array of Dwemer craftsmanship, from the giant wall to the tonal locks to the endless traps, had been simply to guard a vault.

Yet as vaults went, this one was not particularly lavish. The left and right walls were taken up by great metal shelves filled with all manner of machine parts—for all intents and purposes, it seemed to be no more than scrap—and the far wall, which was rather close in, had only a stone chest on a rear platform, wide open and empty.

As the four walked in, Gelebor realized that there was more to the back wall than simply the chest. There was a pedestal before it. A small, square pedestal, tilted slightly forwards, to better show its contents to whoever would come in.

But there were no contents for it to show. The pedestal was empty.

"This isn't right," Teldryn said.

Katria pointed at the pedestal. "Wait. It should be there. It should be right there. What is this?"

Gelebor began to ask himself the same question. What _was_ this? How could the Aetherium shard be missing from this vault? No one had ever been able to open it—

Not true, he realized. Someone had been able to open it. In fact, they'd opened it this very minute.

There was a moment—perhaps half a second or so—when Gelebor had realized what this meant, but he had not yet begun to act. But he never quite had the chance to begin any action. Only that half second after his realization, the ground began to shake beneath his feet.

They ran back to the gates to find them still wide open. But it hardly mattered. Automatons were coming out everywhere. Spiders scurried out over the floor, spheres unfolded and began rolling upright, even the gigantic centurion was stepping out of its confines, out into the open, its footsteps thudding palpably through the ground even as it continued to quake. All of the automatons were heading straight for the draugr, who stood at ease in the middle of it all.

That accursed creature had just activated every single trap in the entire room.

Teldryn's voice came as a furious scream. "You said you were here to _STOP_ this!"

The response was only two words long, and Gelebor heard it perfectly well, even with the ruin turning to chaos around them. Only two words. "I lied."

And then the draugr let out a rasping, cackling, sadistic laugh. It laughed even as the automatons descended upon it, and its body was torn to pieces like all the others. It laughed until the very moment when its unliving force was taken from its body, and the red light in its hollow eyes finally went out.

By that point, Gelebor was already running.

There was no way they were going to make it back to the entrance in time. This place was falling apart entirely. Chunks of stone were falling from the walls, from the ceiling, crashing through columns, toppling to the ground. Nothing was making sense. And the moment he ran out through the doors, the ground exploded in front of him, showering him with dirt—and then the ground exploded ahead of that, and ahead of that—he realized that the crossbows were loosing bolts at the ground. Exploding bolts. They were about to hit their own automatons, at this rate.

He veered and skidded in the smoldering earth, turning toward the base of the ramp. It was impossible to tell where anyone else was. All he knew was that there was no fighting this many automatons. The centurion was still thudding away behind him. Even with everything else happening, he could still hear it coming. His temples were throbbing, his ears were ringing, he was struggling just to move, and that centurion's approach still put a chill through his bones.

As the snow elf finally began his ascent up the ramp, he hazarded a glance behind him. His companions were all following close behind, with Katria bringing up the rear. The spiders and spheres were nearly on top of them. Katria must have been not even ten feet ahead.

There was nothing to do but keep running. And run they did, back through the tunnel, beneath the Dwemer arches, even as the ground continued to shake beneath them. The ceiling in here was starting to crumble. Gelebor wondered if the ground was going to split beneath his feet, as it had for Katria. There was still nothing to do but run.

The chasm was wider than it had been before. That was the first thing Gelebor realized. The trees were nowhere to be seen—at least, until he glanced down over the edge, and saw them floating in the water down below. But the sky was still above them, and the sun was shining as much as ever. He was breathing fresh air.

They had only seconds to decide on a course of action. But it seemed obvious. Gelebor looked to Teldryn and said, "Get your spell ready. I'm going to hold them off!"

"Oh, no you don't!" Katria was right there. He could see through her—truly, he could see directly through her transparent form, into the tunnel they'd just come from. The automatons were still coming. The rough terrain had slowed them more than it had Gelebor and his company, but that gave them a lead of five seconds, if even that. And the ground was still shaking.

He began to say, "Katria, we don't have time—"

"Just get out of here, Gelebort! What are they going to do? Kill me?" The ghost proceeded to draw a pair of spectral daggers from her belt, and turn around to face the oncoming swarm of metal.

What had she just called him?

His thoughts were distracted by an ear-splitting crack of stone. The ground was shifting beneath his feet. He felt himself tugged forward, and the chasm inched wider still. Bits of dirt and stone tumbled off the edge, falling away to join the trees at the bottom.

Teldryn had to shout to make his voice heard over the noise. "I don't have enough magicka to get us all out now!"

Beside him, Vidrald reached back into his pack, and pulled out a blue enameled bottle, holding it up wordlessly for the Dunmer to take.

"Good point!" Teldryn proceeded to cast his alteration spell on Vidrald, then pour the entire bottle's contents down his throat and cast it on Gelebor too. He cast nothing on himself.

There was no time to question any of this. The chasm was widening further even as they watched. Katria was taking the automatons on ferociously, blocking blow after blow with nothing but her blades. None of it was going to last. The instant that Gelebor felt himself become weightless, he took himself upward, up and out of the chasm, onto the surface of the mountainside. He floated over to the far side of it, increasingly distant as it was, and motioned for Vidrald to follow. The far side, after all, was more downhill. It would not do to be trapped on the higher portion of this mountain, after everything else.

As he moved through the air, he spun himself backward to look at what was unfolding back on the ledge. Katria's ghost was gone, and the automatons were pouring out through the mouth of the tunnel. And Teldryn—now completely by himself—was standing still on the trembling platform, dual-casting a bright red swirling spell upon himself, holding it as the seconds passed. Whatever that spell was, it didn't seem to be doing anything.

Then the automatons were upon him, and he turned and ran for the ledge … and then jumped out into the chasm. For a moment, his arms were outstretched forward, as though he were going to grab onto the air itself. Then gravity caught up with him, and he dropped straight down out of view.

Gelebor stared silently. He was already numb with terror from everything in this past minute. Now his terror was slowly turning to horror. What had he just witnessed?

The moment he started to wonder about it, Teldryn rose gracefully back out of the chasm, stepping over those invisible fluid stairs of his spell, and alighted on the edge of the mountainside by his companions. "We need to move," he said.

"Yes." Gelebor nodded. They could save the explanations for when they weren't in the midst of an earthquake.

It took another couple of minutes for them to climb down the outside of the mountain. The earth was continuing to tremble even out here, but unlike inside, nothing was breaking. They still took no chances. No one spoke a word until they'd walked, clambered and jumped all the way back down to the paved road through the ash.

At that point, Gelebor realized that they were, in fact, amid the ash once again. Thankfully, the tremors were fading from the earth now, and growing less and less frequent. He took a deep, shuddering breath in, and let it out slowly as he looked at his companions.

It was such a shock that none of them had even gotten injured. He didn't know what to credit for that. And he wasn't sure whether to try to feel grateful, when he was still racing inside with fright.

He did, however, realize that he had just entered, traversed and exited Arkngthamz without encountering even one of the Betrayed. And to think that he had gone in dreading that event so deeply. All he knew now was confusion. He most certainly had a specific enemy, and it was one he knew nothing about.

That likely meant that he was dealing with forces far beyond his understanding. He had to question himself—why was he still bothering with so much grief over the Betrayed? They no longer affected any aspect of his life at all. The world had moved on to far greater threats.

He supposed that should have been a good thing. But it left him feeling only a deep, lingering sense of desolation. He wasn't sure why this felt like such a loss. Perhaps it would be best re-examined when his hands were not still trembling.

Beside him, Vidrald asked, "Teldryn, what did you do just now?"

"An equilibrium spell," the Dunmer said, before immediately casting a healing spell on himself. "Not my favorite to use. But desperate times call for desperate measures. The important thing is that we're safe."

"But we still don't have the Aetherium shard," Vidrald replied.

"Well, obviously, the draugr moved it before we arrived. It could be anywhere. I'm not exactly sure what we're supposed to be doing from here." The healing spell was still going. That equilibrium spell, the thing that had presumably restored his magicka enough for one last levitation, must have taken quite a lot out of him. It was remarkable that he'd even managed to do much climbing just now, if he had been in such dire need of healing all the while.

"Perhaps we would be suited best by going someplace to find some answers," Gelebor offered.

"We should… get our next shard, I believe," Vidrald said, rather carefully. "I don't know what that creature was, or how it was talking to us, but we have competition. We mustn't let another shard fall into enemy hands."

"That was really good work," a familiar voice said from behind Gelebor's back.

He turned around to see Katria's ghostly apparition standing there and smiling at him. "I know we didn't get the shard, but that was quite the escape. You certainly did better than I did on my try."

That certainly wasn't the reaction Gelebor had expected. For a moment, he searched for the right words to answer by, but then he realized there was only one thing he could say in this moment. "… Did you call me Gelebort earlier?"

Katria looked at him blankly. "That's your name, isn't it? Knight-Paladin Gelebort?"

"My name is Gele _bor_. Not Gele _bort_."

Teldryn failed to suppress a laugh. The snow elf shot him an affronted look. It did not stop him laughing.

The ghost sighed and rolled her eyes. "Fine. Just go on with your journey. Get the shards, do what you need to do. I'll be in touch."

After a moment's pause, Vidrald asked, "How are you going to do that?"

"I'll watch you in your sleep, sweetie," she replied flatly.

Teldryn stopped bothering to try and hold his laughter in. Vidrald looked duly chagrined.

Naturally, Katria continued as usual. "Look. My work isn't done until your work is done, all right? We want the same thing. I can't keep up this physical form all day, but I'll try and be around when the time comes to act."

"That sounds fair," Gelebor replied amiably. "More than fair, in fact. Your company will be most welcome as we proceed. I hope we can aid in finding you your peace."

"Thanks." The ghost vanished from sight without another word. And that was that.

Gelebor immediately turned around and gave Vidrald a reproachful look. "It's a woeful day indeed when I must be the honorable speaker in our group."

At that moment, the ground shook hard beneath the snow elf's feet. Only a fraction of a second later, a deafening, thunderous noise rolled down the mountainside. He looked up to see great plume of gray dust billowing up out of the chasm, into the open air. Something gigantic must have just collapsed inside there. Thankfully, the winds were taking the dust cloud away from the three of them, but Gelebor couldn't help but wonder what he had just missed.

Clearly, whatever it was, it had been very much worth missing.

"We'd better get out of here," Teldryn said immediately.

"Aye." Vidrald joined him in walking briskly down the ashen road, away from the ruin.

As he followed along behind his companions, Gelebor looked down at the bow in his hand. Zephyr, it was called. This was the only treasure they had taken with them from Arkngthamz.

Perhaps he could use it against whoever had sent that draugr for them.


	32. Aicantar 6

Middas, 4:33 PM, 27th of Second Seed, 4E 202

J'zargo's Field Laboratory

One thing was for sure—Aicantar had definitely gotten his wish.

That first week he'd spent in Alftand, he'd been touring the place pretty thoroughly, but it'd been so, so hard for him to find anything to put himself towards. Everyone seemed to be doing fine already. It wasn't like he was actually needed for anything. And that might've felt kind of luxurious, once, but this whole place was an opportunity. He wanted to be worth more than that.

Now here he was, in the one and only cave of Blackreach, and he did feel needed, all right. More than that, he actually felt _important_. That'd been quick, hadn't it?

The court wizard, J'zargo, had this really nice little lab building where he'd been spending most of his time. He'd done a little walking tour of the Alftand outpost, with the houses and the gardens and the moonshock brewery and the shuttle terminal—he couldn't wait to find an excuse to ride that shuttle, it'd looked amazing—but mostly he'd been spending his working hours in the lab, sitting beside J'zargo and working on these strange little things called propylon indices. So far, so good.

It hadn't taken long for him to learn how they were enchanted—if it could be called that, since there wasn't really a soul gem involved. They just had some magical little cue markers, those being discs of Dwemer metal marked with location names—and some magical little indices, those being tapered cylinders of Dwemer metal marked with the same location names. It was a little tedious, but after a couple days, they were already done with twenty or so of the things. Pretty good stuff.

On the other hand, this was only really where he spent his working hours. For the rest of his day, he was going back up to Alftand and just relaxing there. He probably didn't have to, but he did have a nice room up there. Plus, Sarelle. Aicantar didn't know what he'd done to deserve someone so interested in him, but going up to Alftand to spend his off hours with her was the least he could do.

Still, today, here he was, in J'zargo's lab, being important. The two of them were sitting side by side in front of a spacious stone counter, at one end of the long narrow room. The rest of this place was taken up by living-space stuff—in fact, on the far end of the room was a double bed, which was great. Aicantar didn't really care.

Right now, his latest index was sitting on the 'RIFTEN' cue. He was having a grand time pouring his magicka into this thing. But it felt like the ritual was almost complete, and this _was_ the final location on the list.

"J'zargo thinks you are almost done," said the voice next to him.

Aicantar ignored it for a good little while—half a minute or so, maybe—and then let out a huge, deep sigh. He picked up the index, examining it for a couple seconds, then casually dropped it into the wooden box they'd put on the shelf between them. It clinked and bounced a little as it landed on top of all the others. "Sure," he breathed. "Sure, it's done. Oh, Divines, this is exhausting. Don't you ever get tired?"

"Never ask questions to which you may not wish for the answer," J'zargo said primly. He'd just started an index of his own, so he was holding it on the 'BLACKREACH' cue. Apparently, he was fine for talking while working. And he'd still been making these just as quickly as Aicantar himself.

The Altmer leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. He could've gone for a nap right then, or something. This was definitely taxing him. "It's not every day you see someone enchanting stuff while dressed up in armor," he murmured. "I'unno. I'd get pretty tired."

J'zargo replied without looking up from his work. The mirth was still plain as day in his voice. "If you ever tire of seeing this one in his armor, you merely have to say the word."

"Yes, yes, thank you." He tried not to sound too grumbly. It was the tiredness. It took a bit of a toll on his manners, maybe. "What time is it, anyway?"

In response, J'zargo idly reached into his belt pouch with one hand, and pulled out one of those little Dwemer timepieces. He didn't even look at it himself, he just held it up for Aicantar to see. Apparently, it was just around 4:35 or so. That was a little later than he'd expected. Interesting.

Aicantar read the time aloud, then added, "I should probably get back up there soon. I'll do one more index first. Is that all right?"

"Why not," the Khajiit shrugged, before falling silent again and focusing on his work. They really did have a lot to get through.

At that moment, someone knocked on the door. Just three gentle taps on the metal. Whoever they were, they must've belonged here, because this lab had one of those life-sensor pads as part of the door lock. But no one had ever just knocked before. This was new.

Aicantar turned around in his seat and looked at the doors. As he did, J'zargo called out loudly, "Enter!"

The doors promptly swung open, and in walked a fully-armored Black Gear. Aicantar's eyes instantly went to their pauldrons. Or more specifically, the numbers on them. When he read them, he couldn't contain his grin.

The first words out of his mouth, pretty much just on reflex, were: "Oh, it's you!"

"Aicantar." The Orc unbuckled and pulled off her helmet, flashing him a big toothy smile. "I'm pleased to see you made it here safely."

J'zargo paused his work and glanced between the two of them, his eyebrows raised. "You know this soldier, Aicantar?"

"Absolutely!" He was still grinning. Honestly, he should've expected this at some point, but it was completely a fantastic surprise anyway. "This is, Blaz, uh… I want to say, gra-Mogag? Last name?"

"Yep," Blaz nodded.

"There we go. Yes, uh, J'zargo, this is Blaz gra-Mogag, the Black Gear who saved my life in Markarth. So… Blaz, what can I do for you?"

When she heard the question, Blaz sighed heavily, like she'd been dreading getting to this part of the conversation. "Jarl Noster requests your presence in the Silent City," she said, with quite the dullness. "I just volunteered to come fetch you because I heard you were down here. By the way, how's your business going, J'zargo?"

J'zargo replied smoothly, "You mean the propylon business or the moonshock business?"

"Uh… Both," the Orc shrugged.

"Well, in both cases, the business is going smoothly, and J'zargo has all the help he requires. In the case of the propylon indices, Aicantar here has been most helpful." Then J'zargo reached over and gave him a good pat on the shoulder.

This was the best thing that'd happened to him in ages. The court wizard of Blackreach, _the_ one and only court wizard of Blackreach had just called him helpful. He'd sure gotten his wish, all right.

"Good to hear." Blaz smiled again, a bit more gently. "If you're busy, Aicantar, this isn't urgent. But he would like to speak to you today."

"Ahh, it's fine. I was just starting my last index for the day anyway." The Altmer left the metal piece where it was, and stood up from his seat slowly, stretching his back out as he did. "Oh, boy. Ohhh, I was sitting there too long. All right. Uh…" As a bit of an afterthought, he looked down at J'zargo and asked, "You all right with me leaving?"

The Khajiit nodded politely. "Of course. We have only been working in parallel. … Besides, if one is to be truthful, Jarl Noster is not one to force to wait. Things move quickly in Blackreach."

"Like the shuttle, for example," Blaz commented.

Aicantar froze. The shuttle. He was going to get to ride the shuttle? He finally had a reason to do that? Of course he did, Jarl Noster was all the way in the Silent City. He was going to ride the _shuttle?_

Blaz must have noticed his reaction, because she added, "Come on, let's be off. You're needed over in Hjaalmarch." Was she smirking? She was definitely smirking a little.

"Enjoy the view," J'zargo said breezily, before returning to his work.

As Aicantar followed Blaz out of the lab building—the noise of the nirnroots out back greeted him once again—he said, "You know, I already crossed four holds of Skyrim in one day, when Odahviing took me here from Solitude."

"This is faster," the Orc replied flatly. She was leading him along to the shuttle terminal at a brisk striding pace. "We'll be in the Silent City in less than half an hour."

"Oh."

All he could think of was what it'd been like on Odahviing's back. Clinging onto the big ridged spines for dear life, watching the ground rushing by beneath him… and the Dwemer had managed to outdo that? Sounded like them.

The shuttle terminal was decently close by. Aicantar hurried after Blaz to get up the steps at the same time as her. At the top, of course, was the shuttle pod itself, sitting there with its door wide open. Just waiting for someone to get in and take it for a ride.

Honestly, what really got him was just how huge the thing was. Odahviing had carried Aicantar across Skyrim quickly enough. But he was one person. This shuttle in front of him might've held twenty. From end to end, the ovoid pod was actually pretty close to how he remembered the length of Odahviing's own body. The cables that its wheels were suspended on were as thick as Aicantar's arm. And here he was, right in front of it all, right in front of this ancient giant machine, about to climb inside it as its latest passenger.

He'd given this whole assembly a good look over already, but there was no way he'd wanted to ride it just for the sake of riding it. That would've been beyond embarrassing, if anyone had see him doing it. But Blaz had given him an awfully good excuse just now. The Jarl wanted to see him. Who could think less of him for enjoying the journey there in the process?

Inside the shuttle, the walls were lined with metal bench seats, except at the ends of the pod, which were capped off with paned green glass windows. It was amazing how they perfectly matched the curve of the shuttle pod. The right window didn't show much of interest, only the back wall of the cavern, but as for the left… He just walked over and sat down in front of it. There was an endless tunnel of forked support columns ahead, disappearing into the foggy distance. This was going to be amazing.

Blaz wordlessly pulled the ceiling-mounted control lever, and the shuttle door slid shut. A moment later, the shuttle lurched into motion, and Aicantar had to lean to steady himself. They were moving. The shuttle was actually moving!

There was nothing he'd rather do right now than watch. Five minutes ago, he'd been working on his magical project with J'zargo, just like usual, and now… now he was diving forward into an endless expanse of underground space, with pillars below and cables above. Every time they passed through one of the pillar supports, the whole pod vibrated faintly from the turbulent air outside—but besides that, this was surprisingly quiet. He certainly wasn't busy clinging to anything for dear life this time. All he had to do was sit here and wait. And watch the giant mushrooms go by in the distance, because those were amazing.

At some point, Blaz said, "It really is good to see you, you know. I usually don't get to see my work pay off like this."

"Hm?" Aicantar twisted around to look at the Orc behind him. At some point, she'd sat down on the bench just behind his right shoulder, with her helmet seated next to her. She had one leg crossed over the other, and both hands atop the crossed thigh. Pretty much the picture of relaxation.

"Well, being able to talk to someone, I, uh… you know, saved in battle." Blaz offered a little smile, almost sort of apologetically. "I used to live in Markarth myself. My mother was an outcast from the strongholds. But when the word came that the Dragonborn had killed Jarl Ulfric, I fled the city. I had a feeling a storm would be coming. So when we finally went to drive the Thalmor out for good… that couldn't have come too soon."

"Huh." Aicantar nodded slowly. He was trying to remember what he'd done when he'd heard that news. He might not have really noticed. Politics and war and so on, those had all been beyond him. But he thought he understood what Blaz was saying. Markarth had been her home, once. Just like Aicantar himself. "… What about your mother?"

Blaz just shrugged. "Died a long time ago. Not before teaching me how to fight, though."

That wasn't hard to relate to. Aicantar had never really known his own parents. The only thing he'd known was Markarth, and his uncle Calcelmo, and presumably somewhere in there he was supposed to have had an upbringing. He definitely knew a lot of trivia about Dwemer archaeology and the arcane arts, that was for sure.

But he didn't want to get into that right then, so he just said, "Looks like she did a pretty good job."

"Heh, yeah, pretty much." Blaz half-smirked in amusement for a moment, before sighing and sitting back against the wall. "I don't live in Markarth anymore. I don't think anyone there would remember me. I was just some orphan girl living in the streets and fighting for scraps. Turns out just being good with a sword doesn't mean you'll find work. Especially if you don't want to use your sword skills to make people the same kind of victim as you."

The Altmer didn't reply right away. He thought he knew the sort of thing Blaz was talking about. Right up until a little bit before the war with the Thalmor reignited, Markarth had been owned pretty much front to back by the Silver-Blood family. Then the whole lot of them had been killed, supposedly by Forsworn assassins, and the Thalmor had taken their place. But in both cases, it felt like, the only way to get ahead in Markarth was by pushing someone else down. The Silver-Bloods were the only ones to ever actually get ahead for real.

He wondered what would happen over there now that the Thalmor was gone. Going by the usual trends, the Dragonborn probably had some master plan for the whole city. It wouldn't be unlike him. Either way, Aicantar wasn't about to try and pry into the details. Just because he'd lived under Aldmeri occupation for a while didn't mean he understood politics any better.

When he spoke up again, it was to change the subject a bit. "I've been wondering about something, ever since I first saw you. You remember that, right?"

"Sure," Blaz nodded. "You were in that alley, the soldiers attacked you, I did my thing at them."

"Why do you think they attacked me? I've been wondering that ever since."

That got her to pause a little. "… Huh. I never really thought about it a lot. I guess, uh… I think maybe they just didn't know what else to attack. Running around watching their buddies drop dead for no reason, kinda panicking, and they saw you there. They were prolly just being stupid."

Aicantar rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Every time he'd wondered about this, he'd wondered what he'd done to come off as such a threat. It was kind of odd to think that maybe he hadn't done anything at all, and they'd still attacked him anyway. "Well… I'm glad you were there, anyway."

"Ahh, I just did my job like usual." She offered an easygoing smile as she talked. "Uh… I mean, I'll admit it feels good to talk to you again now, but you get the idea."

What a reply. Aicantar didn't know what he was going to do with this. For lack of anything else to say, he just voiced his thoughts. "Everyone around here seems really nice. I don't understand it. You know what Markarth was like. The people can't be _that_ different, can they?"

Blaz shrugged it off. "In Blackreach, maybe. I can't speak for Alftand. Basically everyone who's down here was selected by hand for it. The only exception I can think of is Kamian, and he gets a pass for being the Dragonborn's brother."

"What about the Dragonborn himself? He came first, didn't he?"

"He's not down here. Hasn't been for a while. Not since the Oblivion Purge, that's for sure. I haven't seen him since I got deployed to defend Whiterun from Morokei."

For some reason, Aicantar had been a little surprised that Blaz had known what the Oblivion Purge was. He didn't know why. There couldn't have been anything important they knew about in Alftand that people _didn't_ know about in Blackreach.

"I… don't think I've heard much about Morokei," Aicantar said, slowly.

"Well, me neither." Blaz shrugged again. "I hear it took the Dragonborn, his brother, the Arch-Mage, and Thorald Gray-Mane all working together to bring him down. Must've been quite the battle. But no, at the time, I was sitting in Whiterun, fending off the odd scavenger."

"Scavenger?"

"When we got there, the whole city was deserted. I think they got attacked earlier, and… fled through some portals or something, I'unno, ask someone else about that part. We just camped out in the empty buildings and, uh, made sure no one wandered in and tried to loot everything. Kinda boring, all in all. At least the people came back eventually."

That was news for Aicantar. Apparently, while things had been getting slowly and steadily worse in Markarth, the rest of Skyrim had been busy with some great epic struggles. The entire population of Whiterun, temporarily disappearing through some portals to somewhere. "I guess something… uh… Hold on. Who's Thorald Gray-Mane?"

Blaz raised her eyebrows. "What? Oh, he's, uh… He's the leader of Squad 29. Nord fellow, from Whiterun, actually. Sort of our paragon soldier. He saved all of Blackreach Hold from a Thalmor agent in the Silent City, once. Good luck talking to him, though. When he's not training, he's being sweet on a master mage we brought from Morrowind. I'm serious."

"I've… never heard of him," Aicantar mumbled. Blaz didn't exactly look surprised by that. On the other hand, he had a decent idea of who the master mage was. J'zargo had told him all the relevant details before they'd even gone into Blackreach. "… Did you just use the word 'paragon' in a sentence? You talk really well for a street orphan."

"Being poor and being stupid are two different things," the Orc said, a bit sharply. "No, it's… in all fairness, I think I read that word in a book recently. It just fits here. Thorald Gray-Mane is like that."

"You read it in a book?"

"We read a lot of books down here. D'you like books, Aicantar? You're a scholar's boy, aren't you? … Maybe look at a couple books now and then?" Blaz had the most unreadable smile on. Aicantar genuinely could not tell how much she was just messing with him.

Didn't matter, he supposed. He just smiled back and said, "Yep. Court wizard's nephew, that's me. If you let me take a look at your titles sometime, I can see which ones I've read already. Or, I suppose more accurately, which ones I haven't."

Blaz snorted in amusement. "All right. Sure. Let's wait and see, shall we?"

Good advice, actually. Aicantar gave her a bit of a facetious nod, then turned back to watch the landscape speeding by outside. It really was quite a thing to see. He was unsurprised to find yet more mushrooms out there. The ones nearby the shuttle were going by in a complete blur. The ones in the distance were drifting by at a reasonable pace. Even the really far-off bluish giants, with the extra caps branching out from the stalks. The shuttle was just going by that quickly.

Eventually, something began to emerge up ahead. A big bright yellow circle up in the air, like a setting sun beneath the ground. Aicantar sat up at the sight of it. Buildings were starting to come into view, too. Buildings again! That meant they were finally here.

When he glanced back at Blaz, he saw she'd already put her helmet back on. She looked on silently, one leg still crossed over the other.

Around that time, the shuttle began to really slow down. Aicantar looked back ahead to see them pulling up to another terminal. That yellow circle was actually a big metal-caged glowing sphere, hanging from the ceiling by a single cable, directly over a huge building in the middle of the city. And the streets actually had people on them. Quite a few, at that. They were wearing the same worker clothes as the people in Alftand, he could tell that even from here. It was strange to think that he was seeing them in Hjaalmarch now. Alftand, that Dwemer city all the way over in the middle of the Winterhold, was really less than half an hour's travel behind him.

Soon enough, the shuttle had stopped at its terminal, and the door opened once again. Aicantar stepped out into an environment that felt—to his surprise—just about the same as the one at Alftand. The main difference was that here, instead of the faint noise of nirnroots in the distance, there was the faint noise of people.

"So this is the Silent City," he said.

"That it is," Blaz replied, as she joined him on the platform.

"You guys really need to change that name. It's not even close to being silent here."

Blaz started walking down the stairs. "We have a suggestion box in the debate hall."

"Wait, really?" Aicantar hurried after her as best he could. For someone in heavy armor, Blaz really did have a fast walking pace.

"No, but if you want there to be one, you could always put something in the suggestion box for it."

Aicantar opened his mouth silently. He was concerned his brain was going to explode if he pursued this one.

The next few minutes were just the two of them walking through the city streets. Apparently, the debate hall was that big building at the center of it all, with the big yellow sphere over it. They went towards it in pretty much a straight line, passing a few local residents on the way—Aicantar just waved in greeting, he had no idea what to say to anyone here—and then ascended up a big staircase into the debate hall interior. And by the debate hall interior, he meant, a huge stone courtyard that was lit a bright shade of yellow-orange because the sphere thing was directly overhead.

The courtyard, as it happened, was entirely empty. Blaz guided him through to a big pair of doors on an adjoining enclosed structure, basically the biggest single proper building inside this whole space. By the looks of it, this was the Jarl's workspace, whatever they were calling it.

So Aicantar was about to speak to the Jarl of Blackreach. He had to wonder what he was going to actually say. The last time he'd spoken to anyone this important, it'd been with General Tullius, and in that case he'd had a letter to do most of the talking for him.

He edged ahead of Blaz so he could push open the doors himself. Inside, there was a big, low open floor, filled by a couple of long tables with lots of plain simple chairs, and surrounded by a modest balcony. All of it was decently well-lit, with lamps on the walls and ceiling, as usual for places like this. On the far side of the room was a big plain throne of gray Dwemer stonemasonry, with an older Nord man sitting on it. He was wearing the same clothes as everyone else, besides a Dwemer metal circlet on his head.

It occurred to Aicantar that this meant that the court wizard of Blackreach actually dressed himself fancier than the Jarl. He wasn't sure which of the two of them that said more about.

There were two other people in here, as well. One was another person at the far end of the room, up on the balcony with the Jarl, sitting by a desk reading some papers—that one looked kind of like a Bosmer, but it was hard to tell—and the other was a huge Nord in shiny steel plate armor, right by the door. Probably the steward and the housecarl. It was nice to know that Blackreach had the necessary core staff for a noble court.

Aicantar walked down the steps into the low open space of the room. The Jarl, it seemed, was in the middle of reading some piece of paper or other, but he lowered it soon enough to look at the people coming in. He must've really wanted to finish whatever sentence he'd been on.

"Jarl Noster," Blaz called out behind him. "I found him."

"Thank you, Blaz, you did good work." The Jarl pushed himself off his throne and began walking down the far side's short stairway in kind. "Aicantar! Thank you for coming to see me."

Behind Aicantar, the doors shut audibly. He looked back behind him to see that Blaz wasn't there. That 'thank you' must have been polite speak for 'leave now'. When he looked ahead again, Jarl Noster was much closer by. "You're welcome," he said, just out of polite impulse. "Uh… It's good to meet you in person, finally. I didn't think I would."

"Really? I do actually come up into Alftand now and then, you know." Noster walked up to him and held out a hand in greeting. Aicantar gave it a shake, and then he continued. "I hear you're helping with the propylon project, and that's great of you. But that's not what I brought you here to talk about."

The Altmer frowned. He'd been pretty sure that the propylon project was the only interesting thing he had going at the moment. "No?"

"No. I wanted to talk to you about Markarth."

This suddenly made a lot more sense.

Noster gestured to the chairs by Aicantar's left. "Would you like to have a seat?"

The chairs were actually made out of wood, which was a little bit surprising. Aicantar didn't know why he hadn't made a note of that already. Wood didn't really happen in Dwemer cities. They didn't use it for building, didn't use it for fuel, didn't use it for anything. Kind of hard for them to, what with trees not liking to grow underground.

But this was really not a good time for him to start pondering what the chairs in here were made out of, so he just sat down in the nearest one. Noster promptly took a seat by his side.

"I would've liked to have this conversation sooner," Noster said, "but I've been very busy recently, so I only heard about your arrival today. You're still here far ahead of any other refugees from Markarth. I understand a dragon was involved?"

"Odahviing," Aicantar nodded. "Yes."

Oddly, the Jarl's immediate reaction was to smile and nod knowingly. "Ahhh. Yes. I remember him. The red one, right? Good friends with the Dragonborn."

Maybe that shouldn't have been odd, actually. Noster was obviously good friends with the Dragonborn himself. Friends of friends generally did know about one another in some capacity. "Red and gray. He, uh… He brought me here from Castle Dour, the morning after our group arrived in Solitude."

Noster leaned back in his seat and folded his fingers together in his lap. "So. You're very important for me to talk to. There are about a thousand people in Alftand, and thirty times that number in Markarth. By the Black Machine's estimates, about a tenth of the people in Markarth wanted to leave very soon—three thousand. And some of them might linger by Solitude, but you know what Alftand's reputation is like. We offer shelter for anyone who needs it. So say half of those refugees end up coming over here. One thousand five hundred people from Markarth, all at once, when there are only one thousand in Alftand to begin with. See where this is going?"

What a mess of numbers. But Aicantar was pretty sure he got it. He'd seen the prevailing attitudes in Alftand. Everyone had a sort of common cultural identity, because they'd come in from all different sorts of places, and now they shared the same banner in the same city. But now they were going to get a whole bunch of people from Markarth, all with their _own_ cultural identity. And Aicantar did have some idea of what that identity was like.

"You're worried the newcomers are going to be at odds with everyone who's already here," he said.

Noster nodded. It wasn't a reassuring nod. "Blackreach is a closed-off community. With a few exceptions like yourself and Zaryth, where we just really needed the magical help, we put people through some serious examination before they come in here. Partly, that's to make sure they'll be loyal to us, and partly it's to make sure they're good workers, but it's also to make sure they'll get along with everyone else. So no matter what happens, I'm confident we'll be fine down here, at least socially. Alftand's a different story."

"It's seemed all right to me," Aicantar shrugged. "I like it there."

"That's good to hear. Lenve there designed most of the actual policies we have in place right now." Noster pointed up to the Bosmer steward working at the desk. The Bosmer didn't react. "But it might not be as smooth sailing as you think. You know, before the attack by the Dominion earlier this year, we had _eight_ thousand people living in Alftand."

"I know. I heard about that." As he recalled, he'd heard about it from Sarelle. It wasn't something that most people in Alftand talked about often.

"One big problem that I remember was that most of our initial residents were veteran Stormcloaks, wanting to throw in with the Dragonborn after he, y'know, exposed their cause as a lie. And you know what the problem is with the Stormcloaks? They're racial purists. _'Skyrim belongs to the Nords!_ '" He said that proclamation in the best impression of a big burly warrior that Aicantar had ever heard. "And they were living alongside Imperials and Orcs and dark elves and all the other races they preferred to hate from a distance. I feel like their cooperation together was only going to last as long as the war with the Dominion. And as their leader, I had no idea what I was doing. It was a mess.

"Now, even if your fellow residents of Markarth aren't _that_ difficult, I am expecting them to have their own thoughts on things. And I want to be ready for them. The last thing I want is for them to feel like my city doesn't want them as a part of it. Because then they'll just make their part of the city their own. I don't want to see Alftand torn apart by people having different ways of life. And so that's why I'm talking to you now. I want to hear what it's been like in Markarth, and how the people have been feeling lately. When the rest of the refugees come here, I want to be ready to take them as they are."

Aicantar ran a hand over his forehead. It came off with a little sweat on it. He realized that he was actually really struggling to come up with the right words, here. Jarl Noster was putting a whole lot of faith in him, telling him all this. He just had to live up to it. … At this moment. Right now. "So… you want me to tell you about Markarth?"

"I want you to tell me about Markarth, after the Thalmor occupied it by force. I know about what it was like before. But please. Tell me about what's changed since then."

And so Aicantar did. He told his story piece by piece, and as he did, the pieces started to make a shocking sort of sense. It'd all been so bewildering and frightening at the time. Now it just felt grim.

He started at the very beginning—when he'd woken up one morning to find that the Thalmor had re-entered the city, and locked up Jarl Igmund and declared themselves in charge. At that point, not very much had changed. The guards were corrupt as always, but with the Thalmor controlling them, they were corrupt on behalf of the actual rulers at that point, which… wasn't very corrupt at all. Despite the war going on, life had been much the same.

But then time had passed, and things had started to turn ominous. In hindsight, Aicantar thought the Thalmor leadership had expected the entire war to be over in a month or two. Markarth had been intended as a stepping-stone to get to the rest of the province. But Aldmeri soldiers kept marching out of Markarth and just not coming back. Aicantar started overhearing soldiers talking in hushed tones about a devastating campaign through the Reach, where entire stretches of countryside were being burned to ash. One time, he'd walked out of the Dwemer museum and found two of the keep's staff sitting in the corner of the staircase landing. One of them had been weeping silently, the other just trying to comfort her. He'd just walked past them, for lack of any idea what to do about it. But that sight had stayed with him ever since.

The first real turning point had been somewhere in the middle of Sun's Dawn. At the time, Aicantar hadn't known much about it. A few weeks prior, all the Thalmor activity around Markarth had really lightened up. Fewer soldiers prowling around the keep, less pressure on him to behave nicely for everyone. He'd rather enjoyed those few weeks. They'd been a chance for him to relax, maybe for the first time since the occupation began. And then, one day… everything just turned horrifying. The Thalmor leader in the city, General Colaeon, had ordered practically all the senior staff in Understone Keep executed. The entire city guard had suffered the same fate not long afterwards. Aicantar and his uncle had been suddenly all alone in a keep full of enemy soldiers.

At the time, it had made no sense at all. But now he understood it perfectly. The lightening of the conditions had happened when all those thousands of soldiers had been sent off to attack Alftand. And as for the turn for the worse? That'd been when the news had gotten back that the entire Aldmeri attack force had been wiped out.

And then…. then there'd been the following few months. Everything between then and the Black Machine's big attack on Markarth's Aldmeri occupiers. Aicantar had just been trying to live his life, and it was never working. More and more soldiers were always pouring into the city. That big ugly garrison outside the keep had gone up just so they'd have room. Around that point, the shortages had started. Shortages of trade goods, shortages of magic supplies… but worst of all had been the shortages of food. The Aldmeri army was taking it all for themselves. Aicantar was in Understone Keep, and they had food there, but they never had much. Whenever he went outside, he couldn't help but notice that the people out on the street were looking just a bit thinner. And that'd just unsettled him. That wasn't right at all.

Then the word came in of something happening by Whiterun. Aicantar had a feeling it was somehow related to what he'd heard just today, about everyone in the city just vanishing into thin air. When that happened, it felt like, the Aldmeri soldiers stopped even trying to maintain any kind of order. Markarth was the only thing they had in Skyrim, and… the people in it were the only thing they had to point their violence at. That was just a few weeks before the Black Machine's attack. Those few weeks had been the worst of all.

Here, Aicantar's story faltered. It was time to describe the one part he'd been dreading. But he knew he had to bring it up now, or else he never would. That one part was the lady in the green dress. That had been haunting him for so long.

It didn't make a whole lot of sense, even in hindsight. It just didn't feel like it should've happened. Up until that point, the streets had felt safe. Tense, with all the soldiers patrolling everywhere, but nothing more. And then, one day, just like any other day, Aicantar had been out walking, for a perfectly ordinary errand, and he'd seen…

He wondered if he should've tried to do something. But he knew there was nothing he could've actually done. All he'd ended up doing was standing there and watching. That lady hadn't even done anything. The two soldiers had just come up on her, and surrounded her on either side, and… Aicantar would never forget the scream she made when they grabbed her. That one moment, that one incident on the street was the only time he'd ever seen that person.

And he knew he'd never see that lady again. The same was true for Bothela and Muiri. Aicantar had no idea how many people had been taken away in that last span of time. All he knew was that he hadn't felt safe in his own home anymore.

At this point, he had to stop. His eyes had been running with tears for the past few minutes. He'd just wanted to get it all out there for the Jarl's sake. For Alftand's sake. He had to tell it all. But at this point, he'd just run out of words.

"That's more than enough," Noster said gently. "It's all I needed. Thank you."

Aicantar sniffed and wiped at his face with both hands. At times like this, he really missed having long sleeves. "I guess… did that help? Did that…"

He didn't really get to finish his sentence, because he was being hugged. The Jarl was giving him a hug.

He supposed there wasn't much to do besides hug back. This whole thing felt so strange, but… things were nice in Blackreach, it seemed. And as Nords went, Jarl Noster had a rather light sort of frame. It made him rather nicely huggable.

At some point, Noster pulled away and asked, "Was there anything else you wanted to say?"

Aicantar's eyes actually felt a little dry now. He squeezed them shut for a second before answering. "Uh… no, that was basically it. I think. Oh, gods, please don't make me ever have to go through all that again."

"I promise," Noster said, completely straight-faced. "I don't have anything else I need from you. Feel free to go about your day, now. But… before you do, I'd, uh… I'd like to let you know that I really appreciate you sharing all this with me. I know it's for a big important cause, but that was very strong of you to get through no matter what. You have my gratitude."

"Thanks," Aicantar nodded politely, but his mind was already elsewhere. He showed himself out without another word.

The trip back to Alftand was very quiet. Blaz had gone off somewhere else, and no one on the streets tried to talk to him. He just walked his way back out of the debate hall, down the big staircase, and out to the shuttle terminal he'd come in on. And this time, when he climbed in, he got to pull the lever on the ceiling himself. Also this time, if he wanted to see what was coming ahead, he'd have to look out the window on the right, not the left.

He ended up just sitting on the bench seat across from the door, and laying his head in his hands. The shuttle was off and moving in a second, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His whole mind was a foggy mess right now.

Had he even gotten his story right? He couldn't remember all the details right then. He actually couldn't even remember what he'd said and what he hadn't. This was going to make him sick.

The most he could do was just take a few deep breaths and try not to make this worse. Deep, slow breaths. That would help.

At some point, the shuttle stopped again, and the door opened. Aicantar stumbled his way out onto the terminal platform—the nirnroot sound resumed in the background, this was definitely the right place—and started walking on up to the lift chamber doors. It was a bit of a walk. He tried to do it quickly.

For some reason, he was having a lot of trouble focusing today. Or… not today, just right now. Had the talk about the things in Markarth really bothered him this deeply?

Apparently, the answer was yes. It wasn't like he could dispute what he was feeling inside his own head.

As he got into the lift and sent himself on his way up, he wondered how much his uncle Calcelmo had cared about all this. The old mer had never expressed a word of concern beyond how the Thalmor were interfering with his studies. He didn't even seem to care when everyone else in the Jarl's court lost their lives overnight. Sometimes Aicantar wondered if his uncle just substituted his scholarly pursuits for actual emotions. Or maybe he really just didn't care that much to begin with.

He couldn't keep thinking about this right now. It was going to kill him. He was actually giving himself a pretty bad headache, even. If he didn't pull himself together soon, this was going to be really embarrassing.

But then, just like that, the Altmer was all the way at the top, and the lift was done moving. He walked out in a bit of a daze. There was a locked door for him to get through. He spent a while just fumbling for the key. But he did get it in the end, at least. Then he was out into the cathedral.

Sarelle was sitting right there, on the steps up to the door, reading some book or other. She closed it and stood up as Aicantar approached. For some reason, she was frowning.

"I was wondering where you were—"

Aicantar interrupted her sentence by giving her a big long hug. Being an Altmer himself, and Sarelle being a Breton, he was pretty much a head taller than her, which put her nicely under his chin. But he didn't really care about anything right then. He just wanted to hug someone.

Also, Sarelle was much more interesting to hug than the Jarl. Even if the latter had some kind of prestige value for it. In any case, Sarelle was from Administration, so that was… probably also really good, or something, he thought. All he knew was that this was really comfortable, and he always felt special when he did this.

When he let go again, he said, "Sorry for taking so long. The Jarl wanted me."

"Is that why you look like you've seen Oblivion?" Sarelle asked the question a little wryly, but she was looking up at him with obvious concern on her face.

"I had to tell him, uh… well. Everything that happened during the occupation."

"Oh, gods, that explains it." Sarelle went in for another, tighter hug—that really did feel nice—before eventually letting go again and stepping back with a sigh. "I was wondering when you'd come up."

Thankfully, where they were standing right now, they weren't very close by any guards. Aicantar might've been kind of embarrassed otherwise. "Well, I see you're off work," he said. "Everything going all right up here?"

"Not even close." Well, that answer was a surprise. The Breton wasn't smiling in the slightest. "My day's been feeling a lot like your day."

Aicantar said, "I'm not sure if a third hug is in order. But, uh… what happened?"

"Crime happened. A whole bunch of machinery and precision tools went missing from one of the workshops today. The lot of it was probably worth almost a thousand septims."

"Oh… Damn." That was a surprise. Crime? Here, in Alftand? He couldn't help but feel disappointed. "Who did it?"

"Well, we turned the city upside-down searching for the stuff, but it's kind of obvious. Also missing is one of the laborers from the same workshop. A Khajiit. The guards report last seeing her yesterday evening. Heading to the surface, with a big full backpack. Said she was going traveling."

A Khajiit. All Aicantar could think of was what he'd just been talking about with the Jarl. About how hard it was to make everyone get along. Of all the times for someone to do some act of theft like this… He couldn't believe this.

"I take it you're on the hunt for her already."

"We are, but I'm not confident. She took a horse, too. Probably, she'll go to Dawnstar and sell it all off. Or Winterhold. Or Windhelm. So we'll see." Sarelle shrugged and sighed again. "It's been a long day. They'll probably be tightening security after this. I… I need a break."

"You and me both," Aicantar murmured. He resumed walking back down the stairs into the cathedral, and Sarelle followed. "I don't understand, though. Why would someone steal all that stuff?"

Sarelle took a while to answer. She must've been thinking about it pretty hard. "Well… the Khajiit in question was only here for a couple weeks, so she probably hadn't planned on staying here very long to begin with. Some of the guards were speculating she was with the Thieves Guild, but I don't think so. The Guild needs people who blend into different cities, and Khajiit can't go _in_ most cities. Plus, I don't think they're stupid enough to try to stake a claim in the Dragonborn's hold."

"So what do you think this is, then?"

"Probably just people being bad," the Breton said, none too happily. "We like people to live their dreams in Alftand. Some people dream of robbing their neighbors for a quick profit. Welcome to life, right?"

"I hope this doesn't mean trouble for those little Khajiit children I saw."

"Depends on how much the non-Khajiit children still see them for their race, I imagine. But if they wanted to bully each other, it's not like they'd need the excuse. Either way, it's not as though we're about to ban all Khajiit from the city. … It could be worse, right? We could be dealing with skooma getting smuggled in."

Aicantar replied flatly, "No one would buy it, we have all that luscious moonshock."

Sarelle cracked up. She wasn't able to stop herself laughing until they were all the way out of the cathedral, into the regular corridors of the city. "Ahhh. Aicantar. You don't know how much people have been thirsting for more of that. J'zargo must be filthy rich by now."

He paused. That last remark had thrown him a little. "Waaait. You know J'zargo?"

"Of course. I've _been_ to Blackreach, you know. All of the survivors of the attack on Alftand have. Granted, it was only for a couple weeks, but I remember how it looked. Does he still have the nirnroot garden out back?"

"He had it back then, too?" Aicantar couldn't help but laugh a little himself, now. "That thing is so loud. When was the last time a garden could be described as _loud?_ "

A few people were passing them by in the corridors. Maybe it wasn't best to be talking about Blackreach right then. Before Sarelle could answer his question, he cleared his throat and said, "I'm thinking some dinner is in order. Some really nice delicious dinner with only the finest and freshest ingredients. How does _that_ sound?"

"Leave me alone," Sarelle grumbled, before breaking into a bit of a smile. "All right. Let's go eat. It's been a long day, let's just pretend for a minute that it's not an issue."

She was right, too. It _had_ been a long day. Aicantar supposed a lot of days to come would be feeling long. These were far from easy times, even in Blackreach Hold. There wasn't much escaping all the challenges everywhere.

On the other hand, he did feel decently useful now. That was more than he'd ever been able to say.


	33. Ria 6

Loredas, 6:36 PM, 30th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Dustman's Cairn

Every day, it seemed like the stars were coming out earlier. The sun wasn't even near the horizon yet, the sky had only just started going orange over there, and yet the rest of it was already lit up with a scattering of white dots. It was sort of nice to look at, Ria thought, but mainly it just felt wrong. That fit the mood lately.

She and Erik were out in the middle of Whiterun's plains, as they often were. It was for a job passed to them through Jorrvaskr, as it often was. But this time, something really wasn't feeling right about it. They were out here because some travelers had been found dead on the road nearby. A few of them had been left riddled with arrows. It might've sounded like an unfortunate bandit raid, except that the arrows had been of an ancient Nord make. Ancient green-tinged wood shafts, with ancient grimy steel arrowheads, stuck in some poor travelers' chests. They had to have come from a Nordic burial crypt.

Which left two possibilities. One was that someone had raided the crypt, and run off with a supply of arrows, which they'd then started using on the closest possible targets. The other was… much worse than that.

"There it is," Erik said. He was pointing off to the right of the road, up a gentle hillside path around some rocky ledges. "That's Dustman's Cairn."

Ria squinted at it. As hills went, it did look a lot like a Nordic burial site. Mainly because there were a few big tall pieces of smooth stone just sticking out of the ground. "You think this is the one?"

"Reasonably sure. We're definitely in the right part of the hold for it." Erik's knowledge of Skyrim's geography was still serving him well. Maybe he just looked at maps for fun when no one was looking.

"I thought it'd be…" She didn't finish the thought. She just sighed and shook her head. That thought really wasn't worth carrying on with. "All right. Let's get over there and do our job."

Her Shield-Brother grinned. "Spoken like a true Nord mercenary. You might fit in with us someday after all."

The path up the hill was barely even there. It basically consisted of dirt with a little less grass growing from it than the surrounding hillside. But Ria could tell where it was going. There were three of the stones in the ground, standing maybe ten feet tall—covered in moss and cracked in a hundred places, but standing all the same. They were making a sort of semicircle around a curving ridge of stone, sloped inward, only a foot or two high.

That ridge would be the lip of the burial dome. This was just how the ancient Nords made their tombs. If it wasn't built into a mountainside, the entrance was sunken halfway into the ground, inside a shallow, wide dome of shaped stone, usually open-topped. This was definitely one of the open-topped ones. She could even see a couple smaller stone posts standing side by side atop the ridge, right at the path's end. That'd be marking where the staircase down inside began.

Walking up to ruins like this one, Ria had always felt such a sense of wonder. Once, this whole thing had been freshly built, all massive and pristine, built to last the ages to come. And here they were. They'd lasted. Ruins like this one were the legacy of their time. That was how she'd always felt before now.

Right now, she just felt that same odd feeling as before. This wasn't getting better.

As they approached, two more of those big stones rose into view, on the dome's far side. These ones were a bit more sunken into the ground. But with the first three, they did a nice job of surrounding the dome. Ria wondered if they'd been meant for some spiritual tomb-related purpose, or if they'd just been there so people could find the damn thing. Probably a question for someone else to answer.

She couldn't see into the dome's opening until she was right on top of it. But there wasn't much to see. There was a sunken stone interior, with reinforced walls going straight down from the lip of the dome to the floor below. A jutting staircase made a leftward semicircle around the space, running down the wall from the twin stone posts to the floor on the far side. Opposite the stairs, in the middle of the right wall, was a closed iron double door. And in the center was a stone pedestal with a brazier on it, long since burnt out. The entire thing was worn down, broken and cracked every which way, and overgrown with creeping plants.

So this was the entrance to Dustman's Cairn. Ria found herself wondering when that door had last been opened.

Erik edged past her and started down the staircase. On the way, he ran a finger through some long tufts of moss growing from the lip above. "Hanging moss," he said. "We should collect this when we're done here."

"Let me guess. Alchemy reagent." Ria sighed and followed him down. They were really as ready as they'd ever be for this. But for the Companions, that that didn't mean much more than 'armed, armored and awake'. Everything else was just extra.

"Well, the alchemists of Skyrim have to get it from somewhere," Erik remarked as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "If you think about it, we're doing them a vital service. Can you imagine Arcadia harvesting spriggan sap out in the field?"

Ria snorted. It _was_ hard to imagine. She was sure her Shield-Brother was just talking more to take the edge off their situation. But that was far from unwelcome. "Unfortunately, I don't think we'll be fighting spriggans today."

There was another thing in here, which she hadn't seen from up top. A big iron coffin, standing vertical beneath the staircase. It was empty. Its lid was sitting on the floor.

This was supposed to have held an ancient Nord warrior's body. Now it didn't. In fact the body was nowhere in sight. Ria supposed there wasn't much point denying what this implied. They were in for quite the experience today.

Erik seemed to notice where she was looking. He offered her a bit of a smile, half-amused, half-rueful. "That'd be letting us off a little easy, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe a little." Then her attention was on the doors. "No sense in delaying the inevitable," she said, as she readied her sword and shield. The shield wasn't always her first choice to carry, but she'd wanted it this time. There was no telling what it'd have to get in the way of.

This was the big moment. Anything could've been waiting for them on the other side of these doors. All they had to do was come through. Ria had been feeling uneasy for a while now, but at this moment, she felt like she had answers waiting for her. Good or bad, there were answers in this ruin.

She used her sword hand to push the doors open. They were heavy, and cold to the touch, but they swung smoothly on their hinges. As they did, she had her shield up and ready to block. It didn't feel like it'd be enough. She gritted her teeth in anticipation.

The passage on the other side was empty. No one was there.

Immediately inside, just beyond the doors, was a downward staircase to some sort of antechamber. It was lit up rather well with candles and braziers, and the stone was a little less weathered, but it was all just as cracked and nearly as overgrown as outside. The air was a little warmer and damper, like it often was underground. And still, no one was down here. Ria proceeded down the stairs cautiously, shield out in front, sword held up behind. Behind her, the sound of Erik's footsteps followed her down, just as slowly and just as cautiously as she was being.

The antechamber was a low, rectangular room, with two of those standing coffins on either side, a big stone table in the middle, and an open doorway on the far end. The coffins were empty. But so was the rest of the room.

Erik walked up past her and examined the table. Amid the usual tattered linens and rusted ironware, there was a book sitting there. A fairly thick one, with a dark red cover. He pointed to it. "We could sell that too," he said brightly.

"Or we could _read_ it," Ria replied flatly, as she gave the room a slow look over. Nothing. Even beyond the doorway, she wasn't seeing anything. "Not right now, though. Erik! Not right now."

"Yeah, sorry, I was trying to read the cover." Erik sheepishly backed away from the table and resumed following Ria along. She was already heading over to the doorway.

Again, the other side was just empty. It was one of those little grids of narrow hallways all close together, with circular spaces at each intersection. Ria never liked these. They felt so tight and confined. And normally, there would be draugr resting in nooks in the junction corners, standing still, just waiting to be disturbed. Today, there weren't.

As she crept through, she whispered, "Where _are_ they?"

"I don't know," Erik's voice whispered back from right behind her. "I'm wondering if maybe this place got cleared out already."

Ria thought about it for a second. Maybe this all was a false alarm. It wasn't exactly unheard of for people to get worried about nothing. "… But why would they leave the book?"

Erik didn't reply.

To be honest, Ria wasn't sure how that book had gotten there to begin with. It couldn't have been something the ancient Nords had left. Paper just didn't last that long. There must have been people here in the past few decades, at least. But it didn't diminish the feeling that she was walking through a truly ancient space. An ancient underground crypt. A place where people had been buried for thousands of years. Even if they… weren't actually buried here, now.

It was probably best not to think too much about that. She had to keep on her guard, here. That meant not getting distracted by her imagination.

The narrow passage eventually opened up to a big room, much bigger than that first antechamber. First, there was a wide, short platform, and then there was a staircase splitting around a big stone column, heading down into the rest of the room. And from there, it was just a big, tall open space. The ceiling looked pretty natural. Ria could see a hole up in the top, where soft evening light was coming in. She hoped no one had ever fallen in through there. It was quite the drop.

There were also more coffins around the edges of the room—again, empty. And against the back wall, in the left and right corners, two arching gateways, open on the left, closed on the right. Everything in here felt as quiet and still as ever.

The open gateway led to a little room with a single iron lever on the back wall. Ria stopped and looked at Erik.

"You know this is a trap," she said.

"Looks like it," Erik admitted. "But what else are we going to do? Smash through the gate?"

As it happened, the closed gate looked to be made out of a single cast piece of iron. It was probably practically unbreakable. Ria shook her head. "I don't like it. I don't like any of this."

Erik walked slowly to the open gateway, sword still in hand. "Well, if this little room here never let anyone out, it wouldn't be open right now. How about this? I'll go in and pull it, and if I need help from outside, you can get it."

Ria was only half-paying attention to him. She was busy scanning over all the walls and shelves and other surfaces in here.

"… Hey. Ria. You still with me?"

"Aye, fear not," she said absently. "Just looking for hidden switches. You never know. That lever could be a fake."

"Any luck for that?" Erik's tone of voice didn't change.

She sighed. "No, doesn't seem like it. Go ahead and pull the damn lever. I'll see what I can do from here."

Immediately, Erik walked right into the little room, and gave the lever a good yank. The closed gate on the right immediately lifted up… and the open gate on the left immediately dropped down. He was stuck in there.

"Bigger surprises have been had," Ria deadpanned. "All right, stay put, I'll see if there's a release up ahead."

As she turned away, Erik's voice called after her, "If there's not, get me some food!"

That wasn't work replying to. She just proceeded on her way, through the open arch, into the passage beyond. There was a left turn just ahead, so she couldn't see far.

It occurred to her, as she was moving forward, that she'd just been separated from her Shield-Brother. That was the best way to get a Companion killed. And here she was, walking down this very empty corridor, all by herself.

If she were waiting in here to kill anyone who came in, this would be where she'd do it.

When the first draugr came around the corner, she had barely enough time to raise her sword.

"… _haal-VIIK!"_

The voice came from the first draugr in line. It sounded so raspy and growling, but… it echoed in Ria's head, it just echoed, and then a huge wave of energy rolled down the corridor, straight into her front. She felt the sword and shield fly out of her hands, bouncing off the walls on either side of her.

There were three of the draugr coming around the corner now. Coming straight at her, with weapons drawn. Something was wrong with them. Ria had seen draugr before, she knew how they looked. Dry, gray-brown withered skin, glowing blue eye sockets, the perfect image of the undead. But these ones were blackened all over, letting off an inky version of an ethereal mist, and their eyes were glowing _red_. Since when did draugr look like this?

Ria's thinking didn't get further than that. Her training kicked in instantly. She dove down, grabbed her shield up off the floor as she rolled over it, and then came up on one knee with it at the ready—just as the first draugr came down at her with a war axe.

The impact was incredible. Her shield very nearly hit her in the face. The axe had chopped so hard into the wooden surface that it was sticking out the back. Her whole left forearm felt numb.

On the bright side, now she had a weapon again.

She grabbed onto the haft of the axe with her right hand, just above the draugr's own grip, and then got up just enough to give the undead creature a kick in the chest. Both she and the draugr fell onto their backs, but the axe was still in her hand. And in the shield. She took a moment to pry it free.

In that moment, the next draugr came at her with a war hammer. It was such a huge, slow strike. She rolled out of the way effortlessly, as the ancient steel head smashed into the stone where her chest had just been. What an opportunity. She pinned the hammer underneath her shield, then as she got back up, brought her new favorite axe down on the draugr's left wrist.

For all its age, the axe was still just as sharp as she could've wished for. The blade chopped straight through skin and sinew and bone all at once, and the draugr's hand was neatly separated from its arm.

At that moment, the third one in the group came at Ria from behind with a sword. But she was ready. When it lunged in, she spun around and knocked the blade aside with her shield, then lunged forward herself and slammed the boss of the shield into the creature's chest. For a moment, it was left off-balance, trying to recover from the staggering impact. Ria used that moment to swing her axe outwards into the draugr's neck.

The first draugr had picked up the second's hammer, and was preparing a big sideways swing at Ria's presently-unguarded flank. She turned around to deflect the strike with her shield, and also kicked behind her to shove the body off her axe head. The draugr withdrew before its hammer could swing too far, but Ria was already jumping in. She actually punched the thing right in the throat with the rim of her shield. That left it reeling for a second.

She used that second to turn around and put her axe in the back of the one-handed draugr's neck. Again, she had to wrench the weapon free, and in that time, the one she'd just punched was able to start another attack.

That was fine. She ducked in front of the one-handed draugr's chest as the hammer swung by, then put her shield against its ridged breastplate and shoved it back. It was lifeless at this point—the light in its eyes had gone out—and it just fell limply against the last draugr's front. But Ria was right behind it. No subtlety this time. She just swung her axe straight into the draugr's face.

Three kills. That hadn't been too bad. Ria walked back to pick up her sword where it'd handed. She didn't believe that these had been the only three in the ruin. If there were more, she'd need to be ready, and she still hadn't found that release for Erik—

At that moment, five more draugr came around the corner. Then as many more after that. All of them were the same color of smoldering black, with the same ominous red glow in their eyes. All of them were coming at her with weapons in their hands.

Ria turned and ran. These draugr weren't normal. They never did things like this.

As she came out into the big room again, Erik's voice screamed, "RIA!"

"Yeah, I _know!_ " Ria called back irritably, as she started heading for the stairs. Erik was actually pretty safe in there. She didn't need to protect him immediately. All she had to do was get past these draugr.

Then an undead voice behind her shouted, " _… ro DAH!_ "

This time, the wave of energy didn't hit her sword and shield—it just hit her entirely. She stumbled and fell forwards, landing on one knee and her shield hand. There went her lead. She turned around as she got up. It was time to do some real fighting.

Maybe this was the point where she ought to have been really afraid. But somehow, this was actually bothering her less than all the exploring previously.

The draugr were coming up on her, fast. There weren't any good bottlenecks here—the stairs would've been one, maybe except that there were two staircases and they could effortlessly outflank her that way—but it didn't even matter, because she had no time to run. Also known as, there was a battle-axe coming down at her at that very moment.

Ria sidestepped the swing easily enough, and gave the draugr a neat stab up beneath the ribcage in the process. But that wasn't her concern. While she was dealing with this one, the others were spreading out around her. Surrounding her. This wasn't good.

Before it could get any worse, she tore her sword free and charged shield-first through the crowd, for the stairs. A blade scraped across the back of her pauldron as she went. Maybe they'd be able to surround her first, but maybe she could get up to the doorway. That grid of narrow hallways would make a good bottleneck, if she could reach it.

The draugr were right on her heels. But she still sprinted up the staircase, two steps at a time, racing for the top. And then, as the upper platform emerged into view… big surprise, the draugr were already here. A couple of them were just standing in front of the doorway, waiting for her.

She didn't slow down her charge. Her muscles were already starting to burn, but she ignored them, raised her sword, ran straight at the right-hand draugr, and just attacked. It responded by swinging its axe right at her shield, just like the very first one that'd hit her. The axe stuck. Ria ignored it and plunged her sword into the draugr's belly. They had to get out of her way, right now.

Then the left-hand draugr grabbed her shield and yanked it away. It twisted right out of her fingers and went flying down the other staircase, embedded axe and all. Ria couldn't believe this. These things were so fierce. How were they being this way?

She slammed her shoulder into the left-hand draugr's front, wrenching her sword sideways in the right-hand one's belly in the process, and began to pull the blade free in preparation for more. At that moment, the crowd caught up with her.

The first one in line was a draugr with an ornate black battle-axe. It met her with a huge sideways swing, right at neck level—she ducked beneath it, and the axe head passed right over, barely missing the body of the draugr she'd just stabbed. But then, somehow, it was coming in for another strike already, this time right down at her sword hand. She only had enough time to pull back and make it hit her sword's near edge instead.

Maybe, if she'd just been holding it out, this would've just knocked her sword aside. But it was still stuck in the one draugr's belly. There was nowhere for it to go. There was an ear-splitting crack of metal on metal, and then Ria was holding a hilt with no blade on it. The one draugr fell over with the piece of shorn-off steel sticking out of its front.

This had been a Skyforge steel sword. How had it just gotten cut in two? It was supposed to be stronger than this. But Ria didn't have time to think about that. The draugr were closing in. She dropped the hilt and ran through the open doorway, into the narrow corridors beyond.

Then, behind her: _"… ro DAH!"_

The wave of energy threw her right off her feet. She landed hard on her forearms, bouncing once off the stone, then skidding messily to a halt. If it weren't for her armor, she'd have some awful scrapes right now. Not that it really mattered at this point.

The draugr were coming in behind her. She struggled to her feet again, and drew the dagger from her belt, in an armor-piercing reverse grip. Was a blade of this size even enough to kill these things? She didn't know. Didn't care, either. All that mattered was that she wasn't going down against these things without a fight.

She broke into one last charge, right at the first draugr ahead, the one with the big dark battle-axe. It prepared its strike at the same time that she did. Then with a ferocious cry, she leapt into the air with her dagger overhead, ready to bring death upon them both.

Her feet never landed. She wasn't in the crypt anymore.

This wasn't a place she knew. It was an empty expanse of white mists, devoid of all being. A sun shone above her, yet there were no clouds. There was no sky. There was no ground. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to feel. She was here, and yet she was not. It was real, and yet it was not. This was no place of which she had ever heard. It may have been no place at all.

A great man walked into view before her. She saw him as a tremendous figure, a warrior, wearing massive, weathered steel armor, stronger than any she had ever seen before. His face was one of wisdom, of old strength and grace, yet it was unseen. In its truest sense, it was unseen, and she understood that. The man was looking upon her silently, appraising her, recognizing her. She was transfixed by it.

After a time, she asked, "Did I just die?"

"No," the man replied, and when he spoke, it was the gentlest whisper, yet it filled all with its might.

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am." And Ria did. She would not believe it, but she did. This man was the god of all men. And here she was, speaking to him, face to face. She was speaking, perhaps as the first living mortal to do so in entire eras, with Shor himself.

"You saved me," she said, so quietly. Her voice was so small, yet she knew she was understood. "Why? Do you not wish for me to have a warrior's death?"

The man smiled softly, and reached out, reached a hand to her face, and caressed his fingertips down her cheek. Where he touched, fire leapt, but it did not burn. "My child," he said. "My beloved child. Long have I yearned to speak to you. To one, to any of you. Only now, in this hour of change, have the walls broken enough."

Ria stared up at his face. How could he have so much love to give her? "I do not understand," she whispered.

"You are one of Ysgramor's line of brethren. To me you have bonded. In your doom will this bond be one day sealed. But to you, my heart belongs. To you, I trust myself."

What words could describe this moment? Shor, the one and only Shor, was proclaiming his trust in Ria. Never had there been a greater moment in all that Ria knew.

"You must act quickly," the man continued. "The undead are agents of the World-Eater. In this hour of broken boundaries, he has returned. Look for no beast of the skies, for he has taken his battle into the reaches of all being. He must not complete his mission."

Ria saw it now. She knew why Shor had spared her life, now for the second time. With the fall of Oblivion had come the greatest change in the world that had ever been. And with that change had come new forms of peril, ones that only this change itself could guard against. And here she was, in the midst of it all. One of Ysgramor's line of brethren.

It was no short of a miracle that she was the one chosen for this moment. In fact, the notion of a miracle fell short of what was happening now.

"Thank you," she said, "for allowing me to do this. I will fight my best for you."

Shor took a delicate hold of Ria's hand in his own, then lifted it up and touched it to his lips. It was a touch beyond all touch. It was full of power unspoken and unknown. But it was one of pure and true love. He whispered, "May all the blessings of men go with you."

And then something happened that Ria did not fully see. Shor closed his eyes, and after a moment's silence, a single crystalline tear ran down his face. It fell from his into the mists below, and a storm of brilliant fire flared up in the distance. And as it burned, the fire rose, and blinded, and flooded over all, but it did not burn. Ria could not see what it had done.

But as the flames receded away, they coalesced before her, and melded around a shape. She knew this shape. She knew it, and as the flame finally extinguished, and it was revealed for what it was, she realized what it was for.

It was a sword. Yet it was more than a sword. Its blade was of the perfect Nordic design, but not made of metal. It was made of ice, or glass, perfectly pure, reflecting the sunlight above, around an opaque fuller, a core of gilded steel, engraved with glyphs she did not understand. Its hilt was of the same beautiful metal, wrapped in layers of a dark grip that waited for her touch. This was an artifact beyond all that Ria had ever seen.

And it had been forged from one of Shor's own tears. Right now, right before her. There was no sense in not accepting this.

Shor looked upon her in the mists. He looked with patient expectation. And as he did, Ria understood that with this weapon came the task of using it. The World-Eater and his armies awaited her. But she would fight, and she would serve. Perhaps she would even win.

With a slow but steady hand, she reached out and grasped the sword by its hilt. Instantly, she understood its power. It jolted through her, flooding her body and soul alike, building itself up with energy beyond all measure. The shining blade began to flash and crackle with celestial power. It felt like what the magic of shock spells had always yearned to imitate. Now it was in her grasp.

"Go forth in my name," Shor said, and the mists receded.

Ria landed on her feet in a room of underground stone. This was the one big room in Dustman's Cairn, the one with the two gateways down below. She was on the upper platform, at the top of the stairs. Draugr were everywhere. Blackened, red-eyed draugr, possessed by the World-Eater's power.

She looked down at her hand. The sword of Shor's blessing was still in it. Its energy was already reaching a peak. She could tell what it was about to do.

The draugr all turned on her at once. At the same moment, she pointed her sword up into the air above.

Lightning struck from her blade. Bolts of blinding snapping energy twisted and turned outwards, shrieking through the air, tearing in every direction at once. And the draugr were caught within the storm. The energy shot through them in all-consuming waves, burning their bodies away to nothing wherever it touched. And all the while, the storm grew and spread farther and farther out, engulfing more and more of the draugr in its path, until there were none left for it to reach—and just like that, just as quickly as it had begun, the storm ended.

That hadn't even hurt. Ria blinked a couple times, and looked around her as she lowered her sword. Strictly speaking, the draugr's bodies were still here. But they were little more than ash.

She walked slowly down the left staircase and looked around the room. Erik was still standing there, trapped behind the left gate. He stared at her silently, his mouth agape.

"I'll explain in a minute," Ria said. "But first, let me go find that release."

No more draugr bothered her now. She was still stepping through their burnt remains as she walked along. Honestly, she wasn't sure whether she'd even gotten them all, but sword or no, she wasn't exploring the rest of this ruin without her Shield-Brother.

The release lever, thankfully, was decently close by in the corridor. She gave it a pull, then immediately walked back out to the big room. Also thankfully, it didn't seem to have sprung any other traps in the process.

Erik walked out of the now-open gateway very slowly. He was just looking at all the draugr everywhere, or what was left of them. Eventually, his eyes landed on Ria, as she walked back up to him. "So… can you explain to me what in Oblivion is going on?"

"Yes," Ria nodded as she came into talking distance. "But to start: It's not about what's going on in Oblivion. It's about what's going on in Aetherius."


	34. Gelebor 7

Middas, 8:28 AM, 41st of Second Seed, 4E 202

Sleeping Giant Inn

Ten days ago, the world had officially begun to fall apart.

Strictly speaking, it had been doing so ever since the 9th, when the stars had first lit up with their new, unnatural brightness. But when that happened, something less obvious had happened as well—the sun had started repeating its exact same path through the sky. And so yesterday, on what should have been the last day of Second Seed, the time of year had effectively still been upon the 9th.

In response, as apparently agreed upon by the magical authorities of Skyrim, the month of Second Seed had been extended indefinitely. They were calling it the Shadow Unending, for the sign upon which the sun remained in its present path. Nobody knew how long this would last. Personally speaking, Gelebor couldn't wait for the beginning of Mid Year.

But more likely than not, waiting was exactly what he would have to do. Even if they did manage to make the sun resume its normal path today, they would still be resuming from the 9th, which meant there were 22 days in the month still waiting to happen. That meant that more likely than not, the last day of Second Seed would be at least the 63rd.

Obviously, all of this was completely absurd, and alarming at that. Never before in all known history had the course of Time been so particularly disrupted. And extending the days of the month made a simple kind of sense, but it was a terribly blunt conveyance that the fabric of reality was beginning to unravel.

Gelebor and company were celebrating the occasion by having breakfast in the Sleeping Giant Inn, in the village of Riverwood. This was the third Nordic inn he'd had the privilege of eating in, and he thought he was starting to get used to the pattern. They all followed a similar layout, contained similar content, and of course, provided similar services. He could see how the Nords would so readily visit these places without a second thought. Once they'd seen one, they had, after a fashion, seen them all.

They'd arrived late yesterday evening, so this was really the beginning of their time here. It'd been so late, in fact, that they'd missed dinner time—which made their breakfast this morning their first meal in Riverwood. At least, that much was true of Vidrald and Teldryn. Gelebor was declining to partake this time around. He'd decided he didn't want to have to bother with all that for now. He had other things on his mind.

The mission in Arkngthamz had been an abject failure. There had been nothing to do but journey here in preparation for their next step. But the Aetherium shard from Arkngthamz was still missing. While the shards were entirely indestructible, and therefore its integrity was not a concern, it was still entirely movable. By now, it could have been anywhere at all. Searching conventionally for it would be destined to fail. Whatever their next move to find it would be, Gelebor simply did not know.

"I hope we don't have to wait too long," Vidrald said.

Teldryn replied, "I'm sure we'll find something to do with our time. Perhaps we could go fight something. It's always so fun when we get to do that, isn't it?"

Vidrald squinted silently at his Dunmer companion. Thankfully, chances were that no one had been able to overhear that remark.

Of all the village inns they'd visited so far, this one was by far the busiest. The tables were all filled by patrons—some local, some traveling, given how many had come in just now through the front door—all having their breakfast, and the innkeeper was busily working to accommodate everyone. On the far side of the room, a youthful-looking, blond-haired Nord man was playing a gentle, soothing melody on what appeared to be a lute. Gelebor wondered who was paying him to do that, if anyone. It was as beautiful as the taste of food had ever been. Just as with food, there had been no music in Darkfall Cave. He wished he were of a better mind to enjoy it.

But he did not comment on any such things. He only said aloud, "I don't suppose we have much of importance to do while we wait."

"We need to check the Riverwood Trader for that package of ours," Vidrald said immediately.

"Personally, I was interested in giving the Riverwood Trader a look already," Teldryn said, before giving his drink a hefty swig. It was hardly strong, by the smell of it, but clean water was clean water. "I've heard good things about it."

Gelebor looked at him blankly. "What… have you heard, then?"

Teldryn shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "Just the usual noise, mostly. Apparently, they do well with the adventuring crowd. Quite a few travelers pass through Riverwood on their way around the Throat of the World."

On the crudely drawn map of Skyrim that Teldryn had drawn, all the way back in Dragon Bridge, this village would have been directly below the central city of Whiterun. To its southeast was the vast mountain of the Throat of the World, and to its very immediate west—across the river for which the village was named—was another, lower mountain, which was home to someplace called Bleak Falls Barrow. Gelebor understood rather little of it all, but since their present goal was merely to wait here, that hardly mattered.

Gelebor rather missed that map. Vidrald had done away with it when they'd reached Rorikstead. Obviously, a new and better map of Skyrim would be easy to purchase, but… it was a sentimental sort of matter. To his companions, it might not have meant much, but to Gelebor himself, it had been a gift, and the first of its kind at that. At the moment, however, it felt like explaining that to them might have been more effort than it was worth.

"Well, I'm done," Vidrald said, pushing his empty plate towards the center of the table. "Would anyone like to join me in heading over next door to the Trader?"

Teldryn and Gelebor rose from their seats at the same time as him. They had this business of travel down to a comfortable routine. The three of them headed out in single file through the doors, and the outdoors greeted them.

It was a gloomy, overcast morning, no brighter than the room they had just left. A road before them stretched left to right, continuing on in either direction far beyond the edges of the village. All along it on both sides were buildings like this one—wood log constructions, obviously made using the lumber for which this village was _also_ named. The sawmill was on the far side of the bridge, which meant that the trees being felled were all there as well. Presumably, it cleared the way for simple grassland—or, more likely for this village's age, they simply replanted the trees wherever they cleared them. Gelebor had not yet gone over to look.

As it happened, the Trader was, as Vidrald had suggested, literally next door. There were quite a few buildings here, primarily on the east side of the river, but most of them were simply houses. The few buildings of specific interest were all right here. The trio had only to walk a very short distance to the left, stepping off the inn's raised porch, and stepping onto the next building's porch almost immediately afterward. Vidrald walked up to the door, and graciously held it open for his companions to pass through.

Within was another warmly firelit room, this one made surprisingly out of quite a bit of stone. The floor and walls were made of the same irregular stone pieces, in the former's case with the stone smoothed down to a single complete surface. There was wood as well, but only for the ceiling, the stairs to it, and the columns holding it up—and, of course, for the furniture. The most prominent piece was an L-shaped counter to the right of the fireplace, behind which a man was using a rag to polish a sizable golden ornamental claw.

"Oh, good morning," he said, putting the claw and rag down both. "Welcome to the Riverwood Trader. What can I do for you three gentlemen?"

By his short black hair, matching beard and light tan skin, this man looked to be an Imperial. And by his light, decoratively trimmed red-orange layered tunic, he looked to be an Imperial merchant. Still, he looked the part of someone whose life's work had him happily trading away in a quiet little village. He smiled unassumingly at Gelebor and his companions as they walked in.

"We're here for the package from Alftand," Vidrald said, immediately.

The Imperial frowned at him uncomprehendingly. "I… don't know what you're talking about."

"It's all right, we're the intended recipients." With that, Vidrald reached into his pack, and produced a torn piece of paper, which he placed upon the counter. Teldryn's map of Skyrim. Or at least, the bottom-left half of it. He'd given it a single, complete tear, from top-left to bottom-right in jagged steps.

A few seconds passed in silence. The Imperial was eyeing the piece of paper carefully. Then he reached under the counter, and produced a torn piece of his own, which he laid next to Vidrald's, and carefully fitted it into place. When he flattened both pieces out under his fingers, they did, indeed, make the full image of the map.

"Wait here," he said quietly, before exiting from behind the counter, and heading past them all to climb the stairs to the second floor.

No one spoke. There didn't even seem to be much to say. Either they'd gotten what they were supposed to, or they hadn't. Gelebor still used the opportunity to retrieve the torn pieces of paper from the counter.

After just a few seconds, the Imperial was climbing back down the stairs, with a simple cloth-bound package in hand. By its general size and shape, Gelebor could easily tell what was waiting for them inside. As the Imperial held it out for Vidrald to take, he said, "I don't suppose you could tell me what this is."

"I may get back to you on that once we've saved the world with it," Vidrald grinned cheekily as he took the package in hand. "I am curious, who exactly brought it here? I'm not entirely sure if it would be someone I know."

The Imperial laughed sharply. "You'd remember if you did! It was a huge fellow, completely covered in ebony armor. Looked practically like a giant. He had to stoop his head just to avoid hitting it on anything in here. Apparently, he just walked into town, but the way he talked, it sounded like he'd come in on a dragon. And just, you know. Left it nearby."

"Not exactly subtle," Vidrald remarked. "I'm glad nothing came of it. There are ears everywhere, after all."

"Oh, he had a beautiful cover story. This place has history with the Dragonborn, you know." The Imperial headed back around to behind the counter, and pointed to the golden claw on it. "Last year, some thieves stole that claw, and took it to Bleak Falls Barrow. Turns out it's actually a key, of sorts, for that place. But the Dragonborn retrieved it. More than that, he cleared out the entire ruin, and left practically everything in it for the taking. The Riverwood Trader's never seen better days, thanks to him."

Teldryn nodded slowly. "Sounds like something he'd do, by what I've heard of his reputation. What did you say your name was?"

"Oh, uh, I don't think I did. Sorry about that. My name's Lucan Valerius. What should I call all of you?"

The three of them introduced themselves by name. Gelebor added, "What exactly do you have for sale?"

Lucan shrugged. "Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Most of the residents of Riverwood just want dry goods, but I've noticed traveling types such as yourselves have an eye for bigger purchases. We have potions, reagents, spell books, soul gems, even the odd bit of enchanted gear. If it'll help you on your journeys, chances are I have it in stock."

Over the following span of time, Vidrald and Teldryn proceeded to engage him in an all but incomprehensible discussion that presumably had something to do with trade. They sounded more like they were questioning the worth of every single item that came to their attention. At this rate, they were likely to soon begin questioning the fundamental values of all economy. Perhaps they would veer into a philosophical discussion about the priorities of mortals in a shared world with too few resources to satisfy everyone in it. That would be interesting to listen in on, at least.

It really was incredible, how intricate the world of mortals was. Surely, everything they did was a shallow artifice in comparison to the glory of the Divines—Gelebor could attest to this feeling very personally, in the context of Auri-El. But as he had traveled through Skyrim with these newfound friends of his, the point had been made to him, time and time again, that this land was the product of the life's work of every single one of its inhabitants, all working together on a world far greater than any of them.

Once, he had considered the masses of Skyrim, whether Nord or otherwise, to be essentially incomprehensible, and very dangerous at that. He had seen enough evil in his time to understand what ordinary folk could be compelled to do. In fact, besides his experiences in the Chantry, nearly everything he'd known of the outside world had consisted of such selfish, thoughtless cruelty. His experience of the Reach had shocked him by its sheer scale, but it had done little to change his expectations of anyone. In fact, his first memory of thinking anything truly glad for the world around him had been when he'd come upon the village of Dragon Bridge.

That hadn't been terribly long ago. Outside the Chantry, it seemed, things had the potential to change very quickly as a matter of course.

At some point, Teldryn nudged Gelebor's arm. "Hey. Gelebor. Are you still with us?"

The snow elf blinked and looked around him. "Uh… Certainly. What do you need?"

"That was what I was just asking you," Teldryn laughed. "We're done trading. I just wanted to make sure you weren't wanting for anything."

"… Arrows, perhaps?"

"Already did that for you."

"All right, then." Gelebor had yet to entirely focus on his surroundings once again. But before he could say anything further, his companions were already giving their farewells and heading out the doors. Teldryn pushed a quiver full of arrows into the snow elf's arms on the way. It would appear that their business was concluded.

While they had been in there, the sun had had time to come out. As Gelebor followed the others out, he squinted hard in the sudden light, and shielded his eyes with an outward hand. At least the walk back to the inn was short.

As they made their way back onto the raised porch, he asked, "What else did you end up purchasing, exactly?"

"Nothing too expensive," Vidrald said. He stopped in place, and started unwrapping the cloth package in his hands. "Though, uh… that was rather by necessity. We don't have terribly much gold at this point."

Gelebor walked up beside him curiously. As he did, Teldryn came around on the other side, grinning in anticipation. This was what Vidrald's letter to Alftand had yielded him. A handy package from a mysterious armored giant.

The contents of the package were completely not a surprise. Vidrald gave the bright blue shard a careful look over, then unslung his pack and stowed it with the others. But as he removed the shard from its wrappings, a folded paper note fell out from beneath. He had to bend down and pick it up off the ground.

Then he unfolded it and read the contents aloud: "I hope this serves you well. If you need to contact us, you need not travel to Alftand. We have a secure teleportation network with links to the city keeps of Whiterun, Solitude, Markarth and Windhelm. Regards, Kamian, Ebony Warrior."

A teleportation network. That was unexpected. Gelebor wondered if it would be in the fashion of his Chantry's wayshrines. "Interesting," he said.

"Three out of four for shards," Teldryn murmured. "Pity it's not four out of four."

"Well, for now, we just need to handle the rest of this," Vidrald said, pointing to the door. "With me, now."

There was no argument. The three of them returned inside the Sleeping Giant Inn without another word.

Compared to before, the main room was nearly empty. The lute player was still sitting there, though he'd put his instrument aside by this point. But of the few people in here, one of them most certainly had not been here previously. It was a woman, perhaps a Nord—probably a Breton, by her smaller stature, sitting on one of the bench seats at the table directly across from the door. She was on the seat backward, elbows leaned back on the table's surface and one leg crossed over the other. It put her facing the doorway directly, and she was staring at them over the flames of the hearth. A leather backpack was resting on the floor at her side. Gelebor certainly didn't recognize her, but… for one thing, her armor looked very familiar.

Vidrald walked around the hearth and greeted her with a smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again," he said.

"I was concerned your letter was some sort of trick, until you mentioned what you were looking for," the Breton woman replied, looking up at him warily. "I believe I have it. You wouldn't believe what I had to do to get it." Then she looked to Gelebor and Teldryn. "Are these your friends?"

"Yes, they are." Vidrald glanced back at his companions, and gestured in the Breton's direction. "Teldryn, Gelebor, meet Sorine Jurard, agent of the Dawnguard and scholar of the Dwemer. Sorine, meet Teldryn Sero, spellsword for hire, and Knight-Paladin Gelebor, the last known surviving snow elf."

Sorine's eyes widened instantly. She fumbled for words for a good ten seconds or so, before finally managing to get out: "Leeet's take this outside."

"Gladly." And with that, the Nord turned right back around, and headed out through the still-open front door. There was nothing to do but follow along.

As they stepped out into the sunlight once again, Teldryn asked, "Left or right?"

"Left," Vidrald said, as he headed down onto the road, then turned as indicated and began walking. Gelebor and Teldryn fell in line on either side of him, leaving the Breton—Sorine—to run up and tag along on Gelebor's left.

"This is incredible," she breathed, raising a hand tentatively in Gelebor's direction as they walked, before seemingly thinking better of it and withdrawing again. Likely a good decision. "This is—Gelebor, yes? That's your name?"

"Yes," he sighed, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. At least she hadn't called him Gelebort.

"You do realize that you're a living example of forgotten history, right? I can't believe this. I had no idea this would happen today! Or… ever, for that matter! This could completely turn all my theories about the Falmer on their heads, if you're a Falmer yourself—"

"Please, I prefer 'snow elf'."

"He prefers 'snow elf'," Vidrald nodded.

"The ones you call 'Falmer', I know as the Betrayed."

"Oh." Sorine frowned. "Well… all right, then. What are you doing here, though? This is still completely unexpected. I suppose the nature of this mission does revolve around Dwemer ruins, but I can't imagine you're a product of _those_. Even with that bow you have there."

"Indeed not," Gelebor remarked dryly, ignoring the comment about Zephyr. Much like the map, it wasn't worth trying to get into at the moment. "I served in the Chantry of Auri-El, until it was overrun by the Betrayed. Then I lived on my own at its wayshrine in Darkfall Cave, until Auri-El gave me a vision of Oblivion being all but erased. I found Vidrald by what some might believe to be luck, though I believe it was Auri-El's intention for me to join this endeavor. But I suppose I should ask the same question of you. What are you doing here, Sorine?"

"Well, I've spoken to Vidrald here before," the Breton said, pointing past him at the Nord, who nodded again in acknowledgment. "I was the one who supplied him with the armor. I see you found someone to wear the spare suit, Vidrald."

"It's very comfortable," Teldryn called over.

"I'm glad to hear it. In any case, once Vidrald sent me the letter detailing his plans, I began looking for a schematic that fit what he was asking for. You wouldn't believe me if I told you what ended up happening from there, but—I have it. How's your…"

At this point, the four of them passed beneath the bridge-like wooden arch that marked the southern boundary of Riverwood. A couple of guards were standing on duty here, at either side of the road. Sorine fell silent as the guards came into view, and didn't speak again until she'd followed them a good way down the riverside path, heading up a gentle hill towards who-knew-where.

"… How's your Aetherium hunt going?"

Vidrald pointed a thumb over his shoulder at his black fur pack, and said, "Three of the four shards are in there right now. The last one should have been in Arkngthamz, but the enemy got there first. We'll have to find some way to recover it."

"Oh, that's a pity. Still, though! Three out of four. Can… can I see them?" Sorine was still trying to keep her voice down, but it was a clearly challenging effort.

"Give it a bit, we're still within sight of the guards," Vidrald murmured.

Once again, they continued in silence. It was a fair few minutes' time before they reached the first bend in the road. At this point, the river on their right was running along the bottom of a fairly sizable rock face, much too short to be a cliff or gorge. The sound of the rushing water was so gentle and constant. Listening to that as he walked, Gelebor was starting to feel a little like this was a genuinely satisfying place to be. Surrounding circumstances notwithstanding, of course.

Then they came around the first bend in the road, and Vidrald unslung his pack, knelt down and began rooting through it. "I keep them decently wrapped up, Less to protect them, more to protect everything _else_ in here."

"Not all traveling provisions are indestructible by mundane means, yes," Teldryn observed helpfully.

Vidrald pulled up all three of the shards at once, holding them in an overlapping row in both hands. What a sight that was. Gelebor had seen each of these shards at one point or another, but to see all three at once… it truly did feel like they were only one piece away from solving their puzzle.

Sorine stood transfixed by Gelebor's side. Her mouth was hanging open. No words came out.

After a glance up at his companions, Vidrald put the shards back away, and stood up once more. He had a very graceful way of putting his pack on with one arm. It was rather fun to watch. He said, "As pleasant as they are to look at, they're useful for little more. Without the complete set, they're little more than curiosities."

"Indestructible curiosities," Teldryn added.

"Yes. If we were able to fashion a suit of armor out of Aetherium, I'm certain it would perform splendidly," Vidrald said, as though it were the most ordinary idea in the world. "Alas, we will likely have enough of it for only one item of choice."

Sorine said, "It's remarkable that we can expect each of these locations to _have_ exactly one piece of the Aetherium disc. For them to not only have survived the eras without being looted already, but also to have been divvied up and stored so neatly to begin with."

"Perhaps not as remarkable as you might think," the Nord replied. "These four samples in particular, the ones that we're hunting for now, were made as one. I suspect that they were among the first, if not _the_ very first creations of the Aetherium Forge, and all four cities held onto them as proof of the Forge's success."

"And you're really sure that no one's been at them this whole time? … Besides the one in Arkngthamz, I mean."

"It seems likely enough. They've all been kept far, far out of anyone's way. And no one has been looking for them until recently."

Teldryn chimed in, "Also, they're made of Aetherium, so they probably just found some twisted path through fate to make it into our hands in particular."

Everyone stopped and looked at him. The only sound was the river rushing along.

"… That's how this sort of magic stuff works, right?"

"Why not," Vidrald grumbled. "So, uh… Sorine. What do you have for us?"

The Breton laughed aloud. "I thought you'd never ask! All right. I've been on quite the adventure, these past few weeks. In brief, it involved an exhaustive review of all known literature on the Dwemer, a reading of an Elder Scroll by a Moth Priest, and a conversation with the Dragonborn."

Everyone stopped once again.

Gelebor wasn't entirely sure of the significance of the Dragonborn, particularly in the wake of the Oblivion Purge. But even besides that, it was a truly momentous thing to even possess an Elder Scroll, let alone to read it. Going by the looks on his companions' faces, they were having similar thoughts.

Still, none of this was exactly a shock. For his own part, at least, the snow elf was accustomed to dealing with grand things. That might have been why he was the one to reply first. "What did that yield?"

"Well, he's glad you three are looking for the Aetherium. To be honest, it was a bit of a strange experience. He was there, but he… wasn't. There was a whole of magic and starlight and such." The Breton frowned. "A bit of an odd way to meet the fellow, certainly. But he told me that his power isn't what it was when he made the first move in changing the Aurbis, and that he needs the Aetherium to stabilize it now."

Teldryn said, "All right, let's just take you on your word for all that. What does the Dragonborn want us to do with it, once we have all four pieces?"

In response, Sorine unslung her own pack, and produced from it a distinctly Dwemer-looking cube. Its dimensions were such that she could just barely hold it securely in one hand. And it was certainly made of Dwemer metal, but it was far from plain. Each of its six faces bore large, circular surfaces of geometric patterns, set deep into two-stepped concentric rings of metal. Meanwhile, each of the eight corners was decorated with angular lines that gave them the appearance of being their own triangular pyramids. And the entire thing was covered in tiny glowing blue markings, forming glyphs and shapes that Gelebor didn't understand in the slightest.

"Impressive," Teldryn murmured. "… What is it?"

Sorine smiled at him perfectly pleasantly. "It's a lexicon. According to the Dragonborn, it contains designs for an Aetherial Lock, which he'll be able to use to put a stable limit on our connection to Aetherius. Presumably, whenever you find the Aetherium Forge, there'll be some part of it to put this cube on."

And here was the other reason they'd come to Riverwood. Vidrald had sent two letters—one to Alftand, and the other to Fort Dawnguard. One to obtain the Aetherium shard from Raldbthar, the other to acquire this schematic. In the wake of Arkngthamz, it had certainly made for a good first step.

Vidrald reached out and took the lexicon in hand, examining it for just a moment before stowing it with all the rest. "Thank you," he said. "You… really spoke to the Dragonborn, then?"

Without verbally making note of it, the four of them all resumed walking in unison up the road. Clearly, they did not need to return to Riverwood on any urgent basis.

"I feel like I might've been the first regular person to do that since the Oblivion Purge happened." The Breton sounded less than thrilled by this notion. "That was the impression he gave me, at least. I couldn't bring myself to feel very special. He sounded like he'd been busy."

"Probably off saving the world in some incomprehensible way," Vidrald shrugged.

Gelebor asked, "Sorine, what do you intend to do now?"

"Most likely, return to Fort Dawnguard and resume my duties. We've had our hands full since this all started, you know. Before then, even. Our order had been disbanded for a long time. We only reformed it late last year, because of a threat from some very powerful vampires that you probably don't know about."

"I haven't heard about this," Teldryn said.

"Good, that means we did our job correctly." Sorine continued without so much as a pause. "Since the Oblivion Purge, we've been monitoring the situation with the stars closely. It's getting out of hand. When I read what this Aetherium project of yours is for, Vidrald, I was only too eager to help. I don't suppose you've been seeing anything strange on the road lately?"

"Only the stars shining when they shouldn't," the Dunmer answered, before glancing up at the bright morning sky. "All right, they're gone now. That's good."

Sorine was not amused. "We have what I'd like to consider a fairly good information network. We need to hear about a lot of threats before they get far. Did you know that a shooting star hit Whiterun?"

Vidrald's jaw dropped. Rightfully so, Gelebor thought. If shooting stars were coming down upon cities, he shared the man's consternation, but Whiterun was Vidrald's hometown. This must have meant all the more for him.

"Fortunately, it did minimal damage," Sorine continued, "but events like that are becoming a commonplace occurrence. The Dawnguard was formed to fight against magical threats. Vampires, mainly. But even though the Oblivion Purge hasn't seemed to affect them, they're not much of a concern anymore. We have plenty more to worry about."

Vidrald asked, "What do you know so far?"

The Breton did not sound pleased. "Less than I'd like. All I know for sure is that now and then, there'll be a magical incident, out of nowhere, with a totally unpredictable effect. So far, the majority of the incidents seem to be focused on Skyrim. We haven't heard anything about this from Morrowind or Cyrodiil. That leads me to believe that there's something here that's attracting all the new energy."

Gelebor wondered what that meant. He suspected that there was more to this situation than any of them knew about right then.

Then she went on to ask: "Did you say you encountered an _enemy_ in Arkngthamz? What was that about?"

Vidrald replied first. "We got all the way to the summit of the ruin, but someone was already there. A draugr, but somehow malformed. Black skin, as though it was burnt, and red eyes. It spoke to us in Cyrodiilic. Put on an act of being friendly, then activated all the traps in the room and tried to kill us. The traps destroyed it before anything more could happen. We barely escaped with our lives."

There was a long, tense pause. Eventually, Sorine said, "Well. I see you've encountered one of the red draugr. Those are on our list of magical threats. I haven't heard of them _talking_ before, though. Just being overly aggressive and straying unusually far from their crypts."

Teldryn asked, "Why didn't you ask about this earlier?"

"I don't know, I think I was distracted by the Aetherium. Anyway, yes. That is important to note. The red draugr seem to be acting on some sort of common agenda. Perhaps they need Aetherium for something as well."

"Or they simply desire to keep it out of our hands," Gelebor commented.

"That would be a fairly strategic sort of move, yes. Certainly, were it not for that, you would already have your four shards." Sorine tapped her finger to her chin thoughtfully. "One might suppose that the red draugr don't want to see the Aetherial Lock constructed, but that is only one of a long list of possibilities. It would bear little relation to their habit of prowling along roads and killing anyone they spot."

It was rather dismaying to think that these 'red draugr' were already causing so much bloodshed throughout Skyrim. Gelebor supposed that Sorine's Dawnguard group had plenty of work cut out for it.

"I wonder why we haven't seen any more of the draugr," said Teldryn. "After Arkngthamz, that is. You'd think we'd be rather attractive targets, with all the Aetherium on us."

Sorine shrugged. "Maybe you're hard to find. In any case, they're all coming out of old Nord ruins, so if you're not within a day or two of one of those, you're… at least not _likely_ to run into them. They like to wander, it seems. Last week, we caught a whole band of them out in the middle of the Rift, wandering through the forest. I don't even know which ruin they came from."

Suddenly, Vidrald stopped. "Hey." He held up a hand in warning, then pointed down the road. "What is that?"

There was a bright red shape on the road ahead. It was rather low, and wide. It took Gelebor a moment to realize what it was.

There was no getting used to simply finding a corpse somewhere. It had happened plenty of times in the Reach, and while Gelebor had come to learn what to expect, he always felt the same jolt of chilling horror and revulsion. That jolt hit him just as hard now. For some reason, there lay a red-robed corpse in the middle of the road.

The four of them broke into a run all at once, coming up on the body as quickly as they could. There was likely no particular reason to do so—this body clearly was going nowhere. But unexpected woes like this always merited some sort of hurry.

But as they approached and the sight became clearer, that feeling of urgency was overridden by another, stronger instinct. They promptly slowed down and came to a hesitant stop, assembling in a loose sort of semicircle around the robed form, keeping it at a cautious distance. This wasn't something to approach very closely.

The body was flat on its back, limbs spread out more or less evenly. Its face was that of an Imperial woman, young and dark and gaunt. But beyond that, it was hard to tell the details, because the entire thing was a horrendously bloody mess. It was all dried and dark now, but there was a great blossoming shape of massively, suddenly spilt blood and viscera all over the stones, radiating out from beneath the corpse by entire yards. What was left was grotesquely torn and split open against the ground.

Gelebor had never seen a corpse in quite the condition of this one. It reminded him of how a raw egg might have looked when thrown straight downward. The Reach might have been a nightmarishly haunting sight from start to finish, but this body, here on this woodland road, outdid it all for sheer revulsion.

Vidrald looked up, slowly, at the empty sky above. "Where did she _come_ from?"

"I know those robes," Sorine said suddenly. She seemed rather unfazed by all the gore. Perhaps that came with her line of work. "Those are Mythic Dawn robes. The cult of Mehrunes Dagon worshipers."

"They don't have much to worship now," Teldryn remarked. He seemed to be making a point of not really looking at what they'd gathered around. Gelebor couldn't blame him.

"They don't _exist_ now," the Breton retorted. "They were wiped out at the start of the Fourth Era. They started the Oblivion Crisis, and the Oblivion Crisis finished them. I only recognize the robes because I've read about them."

Gelebor said, "It would seem they exist now. The proof lies before us."

Vidrald seemed to be ignoring Sorine's entire line of thought. "This body can't be more than a day old. It obviously hasn't been moved at all. And… it landed here, from some sort of gigantic height, despite the complete lack of anything for it to have fallen from."

Indeed, they were still in a forest. There was a river on one side, and the Throat of the World off in the other. It seemed doubtful that one could jump off that mountain at any point and somehow land in one piece all the way down here.

But Sorine shook her head. "I'm not so sure, Gelebor. I wouldn't underestimate what the magic we're dealing with can do." She paused, and glanced between the three companions. "You asked where he came from, didn't you, Vidrald? I suspect that more important than where is when."


	35. Thorald 6

Sundas, 8:31 AM, 35th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Silent City Amphitheater

"Thank you all for coming here. I'll try to get through this quickly, and hopefully we'll have time for a few questions at the end."

Zaryth had a really nice speaking voice. Thorald had never heard her addressing an audience before, but she was off to a perfectly fine introduction.

They were in one of the lesser-used structures in the Silent City. Basically, it was a single giant room, with a huge semicircle of concentric bench seats, descending in steps to one little open stage on the back wall. Most of the room was rather dimly lit, except for the stage, which had a whole bunch of lights all around it. Zaryth was the spectacle today.

She was standing there on the stage all by herself, with a map of Skyrim behind her on a freestanding wooden frame. In one hand, she had a metal-tipped wooden stick, sort of like an arrow without the flights or a sharpened head, and she was using it to point to the map. There were a lot of little bright blue dots scattered all over it, marked with tiny black numbers.

"We're facing a potential crisis across all of Skyrim. As you're aware, the Oblivion Purge has resulted in an increased connection between Mundus and Aetherius. For a period of roughly three weeks, this had relatively negligible effect. But on the 9th of Second Seed, an unknown entity interfered. The Dragonborn thinks it's Alduin again. Trying to, uh… He's most likely trying to end the world again. So, we're going to need to examine what he's doing, and try to stop him."

That was quite an introduction. Thorald hadn't even known that the Dragonborn was still in contact with anyone. Somehow, that was more of a surprise than the bit about Alduin.

The entire Black Machine was in here, along with the Blackreach senior staff. No armor, of course, for Zaryth's sake. This was actually the first time they'd ever tried getting everyone in here at once for official business, since usually their news didn't require so much of a deliberate presentation. Naturally, Thorald had picked a front-row seat. Zaryth kept glancing to him as she talked.

"Farengar Secret-Fire, the court wizard of Whiterun, has observed that since that date, the times of sunrise and sunset have remained completely constant. Hence the decision to extend the month of Second Seed until this is over. For celestial purposes, we're still on that one day. I think Farengar was actually the one to come up with the name Shadow Unending for this. So it's a good thing this didn't happen during Sun's Dawn, or else this would be the Lover Unending, and I don't think anyone wants to see that."

That got a laugh out of everyone. Thorald was sitting close enough to see Zaryth smile a little in response. She was still getting used to this audience. But she clearly knew her way around oratory. Maybe they'd let her practice that at one of her mage schools.

When the Dunmer continued, she seemed a little more relaxed. "The effect of this so-called Shadow Unending could be roughly likened to holding a large plate of metal over a lit candle. If you keep the plate constantly moving around over it, the candle's heat will end up making the whole thing fairly warm. But if it's stopped in one place, the metal right above the flame will become too hot to touch."

Then she pointed her stick at the map of Skyrim behind her. "On this map, we have the location of every reported shooting star to have landed in Skyrim since the Oblivion Purge. As you can see, the number is simply staggering. Fortunately, most of them have landed in wilderness or sparsely populated areas. One did land directly in Whiterun, but with miraculously negligible damage."

There was a collective sigh of relief through the room. More than a few people in here had once lived in Whiterun. Thorald himself counted among that number. When she'd said the name of the city just then, it'd been a bit of a jolt.

"What you don't see on this map is the date on which each shooting star was sighted. At first, it was very intermittent, with only one every few days, but now we're seeing at least one a day, often more. We've also received sporadic reports of other forms of anomalies. Squads 29 and 30, while clearing Raldbthar, encountered a giant nirnroot visibly growing in a corridor, before the corridor spontaneously caved in. It's likely that there are many other anomalies of that kind throughout Skyrim, but they're much harder to spot from afar.

"Additionally, Alduin seems to have taken direct control of the draugr in Skyrim's various Nordic tombs. They're visually very different—supposedly, they're being referred to as red draugr, for the change in eye color—but overall, they seem physically the same as before. Mentally, however, they're much more coordinated and aggressive. More likely than not, Alduin is using them to try to distract us from interfering in his plans, but we can't discount the possibility that he has a greater goal for them."

The lecture went on for a while longer. Zaryth was getting pretty deep into all the magical implications and so on. Apparently, the reason Blackreach hadn't seen any anomalies so far itself was because of the Aetherium ore everywhere. Now there was a campaign to mine up more of that stuff here and there within the cavern, and move pieces of it to the major cities in Skyrim, for safety's sake. That sounded good.

Then there was a lengthy bit where she was pointing to locations on the map of Skyrim, and describing things about the red draugr. It might've been strategically important in some way, maybe. Thorald didn't really know how. He sort of suspected that Zaryth had just wanted to stand in front of everyone and point at a map.

But eventually, that drew to a close too, and she ended her speech with: "And with that, I'll take some questions. At least until Kamian tells me I'm out of time."

Thorald immediately raised his hand. Pretty much the exact moment he did, Zaryth pointed at him with the stick. "Yes, dear?"

Another laugh from everyone. Thorald couldn't help but smile, too. Clearly, their relationship wasn't very much of a secret. Their first kiss had been a whole couple weeks ago. By now, it was just a fact of life. He asked, "How did you learn about the thing from the Dragonborn?"

"Oh, he showed up last night," Zaryth replied, with the perfect casualness of someone who'd learned to think nothing of extraordinary events. That was all the proof Thorald needed that she was telling the truth. The Dragonborn had made that way of speech into an art form. "It was one of those spontaneous magical sort of things. He's been busy keeping Alduin from doing any more damage, so the visit was limited. But he's doing just fine, if anyone's curious." Then she pointed to someone far above Thorald's head, in the back. "Yes?"

A female, Nordic-sounding voice called out. "Is it true you were the one to get us that Songs of the Return compendium?"

There was a rumble of amusement from the rest of the audience. Zaryth smiled. "Oh, yes, that was me. Have you all been liking that?"

The rumble promptly broke into an all-out cheer of approval. _That_ was a surprise. Now even Zaryth herself was laughing a little bit.

The same voice in the back called out, "It has so many new stories!"

"Well, they're actually—" Zaryth held up her free hand in a quieting gesture. She was still beaming with mirth. That was a beautiful sight if Thorald had ever seen one. "They're actually not new at all! As it happens, they're every bit as old as the rest. Most of them have been lost at one point or another, but I got a hold of that compendium while I was an apprentice in Morrowind. If any of you want to try copying its contents into some new books, I'm sure there are others in Skyrim would love to read the missing stories too."

Honestly, Thorald had expected the question-and-answer portion of this talk to be more related to strategy. That would've been pretty normal down here. But, he had to remind himself, most of his fellow Black Gears hadn't actually spoken to Zaryth personally. This was the first they were really seeing of her. They must have been curious what she was like.

"Five minutes," another voice called out from the back. It took a moment for Thorald to recognize it as Kamian's. His voice wasn't as deep when he was calling across a room.

The Dunmer nodded in response. "All right, then. Who else, uh…" She narrowed her eyes and looked around a bit, then pointed to someone off to the side. "You?"

This time, the voice was a male's, but not exactly Nordic-sounding. Maybe an elf's. "What do the shooting stars have in them? Any of that special iron, or that sort of thing?"

"It varies from one to the next," Zaryth replied, with a surprisingly approving tone. It just wasn't letting up today. Thorald would've expected her to have some indignant response about the shooting stars' contents being known as 'that special iron' now. This was great to watch. "Unfortunately, we've only been able to study a few, because our reports of the shooting stars are coming in from the dragons. And Thu'um powers notwithstanding, they can't do much for analysis on the impact sites. Some of them contain meteoric iron or glass, while others seem to be simply solid stone. I certainly expect that they'll do more harm than good, if they keep leaving craters all over the province." And then, just like that, she pointed to yet another person, this one practically right over Thorald's shoulder. "Yes?"

It was an Orc's voice. Galurag, Thorald realized. He was asking, "What's going on with the surviving Daedra? I've been hearing some strange things about Malacath."

"That is a very good question. As I understand it, Azura, Meridia and Nocturnal have been left essentially as they are. But the Dragonborn mentioned a little of this to me, and it sounded like in Malacath's case, he simply undid Boethiah's corruption on him. With any luck, it will undo the Orsimer race's tendency to be the pariahs of the world. Uh… I suppose this means he's going by the name of Trinimac again? He still has his own plane of Oblivion, in any case."

She took a breath in, and then continued. "The other Daedric Prince that he spared was Sheogorath. And in that case, he undid the curse the other Daedric Princes had put on him some eras ago. The Daedric Prince of Madness has returned to being Jyggalag, the Daedric Prince of Order. Of all the Daedric Princes, from what I've heard, he's taking the most active interest in the Shadow Unending. I don't think he likes it any more than we do."

The audience's reaction to this was a little mixed. It wasn't unhappy news, Thorald supposed, but hearing that Malacath had been changed forever must have been a shock for all the Orcs present, and the Black Machine had quite a few of those. He hoped it wasn't bothering them at all. Being pariahs was just sort of the Orc identity, as he understood it. They practically prided themselves on it. This was going to be interesting, moving forward.

Now she pointed to someone up in the back again. "You, up there."

Thorald recognized this one's voice. This was Lenve, the steward of Blackreach. "What do you think we need to do to end this?"

That made her stop for a few seconds. She just frowned pensively at nothing in particular, then sighed and shook her head. "I don't think that's up to us. My understanding, uh—someone correct me if I'm wrong—my understanding is that someone else out there is already handling that. Beyond that, I think it's need-to-know, as seems to be typical for active missions. Those of you who are actually in the Black Machine, I think Kamian will have some orders for you. Maybe he can take over the questions for a bit."

"Not a chance!" Kamian's voice called from the back of the room.

"Probably wouldn't fit on the stage anyway," Zaryth deadpanned, to yet more amusement from everyone. "Uh… All right. Who's next…" She paused. "Really? No one has any more questions—oh, there we go. Feel free."

Another female voice. An Orc, again. He wasn't sure if he recognized which one it was, this time. "In your book series Dynasties of the Deep Folk, volume two, you describe the Regnez clan as founding Nchuand-Zel, but in the next chapter, you also have it founding Bthardamz, and it's not clear which one they did first. Do we know which came first? Or at least, do we know which one was the seat of power for the clan?"

There was a very long pause. Zaryth stared at the person blankly. Then she squinted. "… Who _are_ you?"

"Blaz gra-Mogag," the voice said. "I started reading your books last week."

Zaryth raised her eyebrows silently. The room was totally quiet now. After a moment of that, she replied, "Well, going by what I remember, there aren't any recorded dates for either instance, which is a common trend all throughout Dwemer history, but artifacts obtained from both locations share such common aspects of craftsmanship that it's possible that they were visited by the same artisans. Their founding would have likely been no more than a century or two apart. As for the clan's seat of power, there's no documentation of political power dynamics between the two cities, but I would speculate that Bthardamz housed the head of the clan, if only for its sheer size. Have you ever considered a career in archaeology?"

"Sure," Blaz's voice replied, "it's called living in Blackreach."

"You're all wonderful people," Zaryth muttered, which apparently was completely audible through the entire room, because everyone laughed out loud. She waited for them to stop, then started to say something, before getting completely distracted by something in the same direction as before. "What—no, you literally just asked a question, Blaz. All right, does anyone else want to ask something?" A few more seconds passed by. Zaryth looked over the audience for a second, then sighed. "All right, Blaz, ask away."

"Is there a proper Dwemer name for this city? 'Silent City' is a stupid name, the Dwemer one can't be _that_ much worse."

There was a murmur of agreement throughout the room. Thorald found himself nodding along with them all. The name didn't really fit the city in the slightest by this point.

Zaryth replied, "I'd be better-equipped to answer that question if I'd known Blackreach had existed before coming here. Inscriptions in the surface cities suggest that this cavern as a whole was known as FalZhardum Din, or Blackest Kingdom Reaches, hence the name Blackreach. It could be that this city was simply known as FalZhardum, and the surrounding caverns were named after it. The name Blackreach might have been more accurately translated as, say, Black City Hold. Which, by the way, would make our term 'Blackreach Hold' magnificently redundant."

"Like Winterhold Hold," someone called out, which earned another laugh from people.

The Dunmer just grinned and nodded. "Yes, that sort of thing. Naming conventions suffer just as much over time as any other part of history. So, uh… In conclusion, Blaz, if you want a different name for this place, try FalZhardum. Or Black City or something. Maybe you could find Jarl Noster and have him sign off on it."

Noster's voice snapped irritably, "I'm sitting right here!"

"Good morning," she waved in Noster's direction pleasantly, which, predictably, gave everyone another laugh. "Uh… How are we for time?"

Kamian answered from the back, "Just about done. Let's call it here."

"All right!" Zaryth set her stick down against the map behind her, then clapped her hands together. "Thank you all for your time, and, uh, good luck out there."

With that, everyone started getting up and filing out. There were a couple of big doors up at the top of the room, opposite the stage, which was going to be everyone's main exit. There was also a much smaller door off to the stage's right, which Zaryth went and disappeared into.

A pleasant murmur of conversation was rising up through the room. People must have had a lot on their minds after all this. For his part, Thorald got up out of his seat, then turned and looked at his squadmates. They'd all come here at the same time, so they'd been sitting in a row together. "We're not on morning duty for anything," he said. "You're free to do as you like. I'll catch up with you in a bit, all right?"

"Whatever you say," Echallos said wryly. He'd been sitting just next to Thorald for this whole thing, silently taking it all in. "We'll see you around."

That was good enough. Thorald didn't wait for any more farewells, he just went straight for that little door by the stage.

On the other side was a narrow, brightly lit corridor, running a short distance left before going up a staircase. Zaryth was leaning with her back to the near wall, just by the door, with her hands resting on her eyes and forehead.

Thorald closed the door gently behind him. "You all right?"

"Azura, that was exhausting," Zaryth breathed, before letting her hands slide down her face. She smiled at the sight of the Nord standing there. "Uh… How did I do?"

"It was very informative," Thorald shrugged, before breaking into a big grin and taking her around the waist in one arm. "That was great. You are now the very likable Telvanni mage in Blackreach. Feel good?"

"Well, in fairness, quite a lot of things in Blackreach feel good." She responded to the embrace by wrapping both her arms around Thorald's back, and leaning up to give him a little kiss on the neck. "Not to diminish its scholarly merits, of course, but…"

Thorald returned the two-armed hug, and adjusted it to be a little lower down. Zaryth's upper back was still against the wall, here. "You _are_ known first and foremost for giving us the Compendium."

"Better than being known first and foremost for the gods-damn moonshock," Zaryth muttered.

Thorald couldn't help but snicker a little. But this wasn't the time to poke fun at the Dunmer's alchemical mishaps. He leaned in to rest his forehead on hers, and closed his eyes. "Mmm… Now we can really talk."

"Oh, we're going to talk, are we?" Her voice dripped with mirth. "Sure. Let's do that."

A short while later, Thorald walked out of the amphitheater and took a look around the streets. He didn't really go into this part of the city very often. Neither did anyone else, by the looks of it. The streets were empty. He might've been at risk of getting lost, except that the sun-orb was right there, straight ahead of him, letting him know where the center of the city was.

He didn't think 'Black City' was a very fitting name either. This place was most striking for all the shades of cyan and gold.

Chances were, his squadmates would be in the living quarters. Or at least a few of them would be, anyway. He wasn't really guaranteed to see any of them until luncheon, since group training didn't start up until the afternoon. But seeing as Zaryth had gone off to her lab, it couldn't hurt to finally get to catching up with the others.

He headed on back to the center of the city at a brisk walking pace. From here, the living quarters were on the near side of the debate hall, so he actually came up around them from behind. A few people were walking around on the street, but none of them stopped for him, so he just went right on, and circled around to his home building's front doorway.

As he shouldered his way through the chain curtain, Thorald was greeted by the sounds of fighting. Down at the far end of the room, to the left of the table, a couple of Black Gears were having a brawl, while a few others sat around and watched. He approached with a feeling of cautious interest. It wasn't uncommon for them to do this. At least, when they weren't busy reading books.

Both of the brawlers were easily recognizable. They were his squadmates. Alysca, and Echallos. By the look of it, Alysca was beating Echallos to a pulp, which wasn't exactly a surprise. The Breton had a habit of losing most of the brawls he got into.

Thorald sat down at the table by Fadrala. She and Alysca were twin sisters, and it showed—blond of hair, sturdy in build, heavy-set but charming features. They were mainly easy to tell apart because Alysca kept her hair long and Fadrala kept her hair short. Rather considerate of them, really.

Echallos lunged in and gave Alysca a ferocious punch to the gut. That knocked the wind out of her, all right. She should have seen that punch coming from a mile away. Sometimes people seemed to forget that Echallos was actually willing to hit them back.

"Where's Decarro?" Thorald glanced sideways at his squadmate. "I thought you'd all be here."

Fadrala shrugged. She didn't take her eyes off the fight. "He didn't follow us here. Had some other thing to do. I didn't ask."

One of the other spectators was from Squad 30. Kev, if Thorald recalled correctly. He gave the fellow a wave in greeting before speaking again. "I hope that presentation went over well with everyone. We're facing some serious stuff."

Just then, Alysca grabbed the back of Echallos' neck, and started hammering him with uppercut after uppercut just beneath the ribs. When Echallos blocked one of the punches, Alysca elbowed him hard in the face, then threw him past herself onto the floor. That was that brawl ended, then.

"It is strange that Alduin's back all of a sudden," Fadrala said, plainly indifferent to the outcome of the fight just now. "It's good that someone's on it, even if it's not one of us."

Echallos rolled slowly onto his back, groaning in pain. His nose was bloodied from the elbow strike, but he had a bit of a smile on anyway. "Well-fought," he managed to get out, before raising a hand shakily and starting on a healing spell.

"Yep," Alysca nodded, before completely ignoring him and walking past to sit by her sister. "Hey, Thorald. How are you?"

With no more brawl to sit here and watch, the other Black Gears were peeling away pretty quickly. That was fair, Thorald supposed. They probably had some books to read or something anyway. He said, "Oh, I'm all right. Enjoy your little match just now?"

Alysca shrugged. "Sure. What are we doing next?"

"Maybe some training," Fadrala said. "If you need any more."

These two twins weren't usually the most talkative. They were relentless professionals whenever they were on duty, but at times like this, Thorald didn't always have a clear idea of what they wanted. They seemed happy enough here, at least.

Echallos finished his spellcasting, and then got up on one elbow, sniffing and wiping at his nose with his free hand. Considering what he'd just been up to, he did look awfully satisfied. "I've probably gotten all I need for the morning," he said to his three squadmates. "But I'd be happy to go another round if anyone's interested."

Thorald laughed a little. "You never do really get enough, do you?"

"Fighting is fun," he said matter-of-factly. "Or, uh, getting fought. It's important to have things in life you enjoy." With that, he got up and joined them at the table. All four of them were facing out towards the wall, with their backs to the actual table surface.

They sat like that in silence for a little bit. Eventually, Fadrala said to Thorald, "It _was_ strange when you and Echallos fell into that cave-in. I thought you were gone for good."

Thorald nodded slowly. "So did I, until we found you again. Even after we fell through, we were still surrounded by Falmer. Echallos, how many did you kill while I was fighting that one with the staff? Twenty?"

"Something like that," Echallos replied. "It was a little unfair. They kept trying to cast spells at me. Mine were sticking, theirs weren't."

Alysca said, "We should be ready for more things like that. Especially in Alftand. It's the same as Raldbthar, but with actual people in it."

"I think it's the first priority for the Aetherium ore," Thorald nodded. "Shouldn't take long. Alftand _is_ right on our doorstep."

"So are four of the hold capitals." Alysca was certainly very short with words. It sort of reminded Thorald of how he himself sometimes acted. He had that habit of keeping his words very far from how he felt.

Echallos said, "You know, the hold capitals actually take us _less_ time to reach than Alftand. We don't have to go through the shuttle first, or the lift. We could be in Dragonsreach ten minutes from now."

"Not that your mead is less special for it," said Fadrala.

The mead. That was a good point. For Thorald's birthday, Zaryth had gotten him an entire barrel of Honningbrew mead. He wasn't even sure how she'd gotten it through the propylon array, but there'd been plenty to share with the other Black Gears. It was nearly empty now, of course, but that wasn't a surprise. His birthday had been nearly a week ago. Probably, the only reason there was even any left was because Thorald never had more than one tankard of the stuff in a sitting, and the others followed his example.

They sat there quietly for a little bit. Eventually, Echallos remarked, "I don't imagine this is going to stop at cave-ins. We've never had a situation like this before in the history of the Aurbis. Oblivion's nearly gone. We're down to five Daedric Princes. Alduin's tearing reality apart at the seams. And we Black Gears are taking this on with swords and crossbows. I hope someone has a plan for us."

"Raldbthar was helpful, I think," Thorald said. "Aetherium seems to make a lot of this stuff more controllable. Even the raw Aetherium ore does that. I'm sure whatever that refined shard is being used for is good for that."

"There are probably more shards like it," Alysca said.

Her twin added, "Probably in other Dwemer ruins. Maybe not the ones in Blackreach Hold."

"I think you mean Black City Hold Hold," said Echallos.

Thorald cracked up. "… Thank … thank you for that. Yes. It's clear now that our mission as Black Gears is to come up with a better name for the Silent City. FalZhardum is terrible."

The Breton was clearly not feeling repentant for his remark just now. "Well, it means Blackest Kingdom, supposedly. And that's just… well, it's not even that dark in here, is it?"

"Most Dwemer ruins are lit as brightly as the outdoors," said Fadrala. "And this might not have contained so many mushrooms, once."

Alysca gave her a sidelong look. "It's still a bad name now."

"You fellows _are_ aware I was joking when I said this was our mission as Black Gears," Thorald said.

Echallos laughed out loud. "Hey! I just realized. Seeing as we all have muffle enchants on, we could just switch the names around, and be Silent Gears in the Black City. That's more fitting, right?"

Everyone went quiet. After a couple seconds, Fadrala leaned over and smacked Echallos across the face. The Breton made a tremendously undignified noise and clutched at his cheek.

"Not very silent," Alysca smirked.

Thorald tried not to grin too obviously. "You know, at some point we're going to have to talk about how to deal with the Shadow Unending. … Or you could sit around and beat each other up. I'm sure I can find something to do."

"I should make bad jokes more often," Echallos muttered.

Fadrala said, "You know what's a bad joke? The Song of the Alchemists."

Her sister groaned loudly. So did Echallos, in fact. He buried his face in his hands and said, sort of muffled through them, "Please tell me you didn't read that through."

In response, Fadrala launched into an inane sing-song voice. "When King Maraneon's alchemist had to leave his station, after a laboratory experiment that yielded detonation…"

"This isn't the kind of pain that I want in my life," Echallos sobbed dramatically.

Clearly, Thorald had caught up with his squad well enough. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. "I'm going to go try to be responsible now. I'll be back by luncheon, I'm sure."

His squadmates gave him a variety of casual farewells, and that was that. He hurried on out of there before anyone could do any more singing.

It was a bit of a lengthy walk from here to the laboratory. The amphitheater had been pretty close to the city outskirts, but the lab was as far out as the buildings even got. Which had been sort of on purpose, but now Thorald had to do a bunch of walking just to get over there. He hurried over as quickly as he could without actually breaking into a run.

Soon enough, he was looking right at the laboratory building. There wasn't anything very interesting out here. Hopefully, this wouldn't be too long a wait. He walked up and gave the doors a gentle knock.

A few seconds later, they opened up, and Zaryth was standing right there before him. She raised her eyebrows at him. "Hello again. Uh… I thought you were going to see your squadmates?"

"I did." Thorald made a pained expression. "I left when one of them started quoting Marobar Sul."

Zaryth grimaced in completely open disgust. "Eugh. I can't imagine that went over well."

This was basically how everyone had been reacting to Marobar Sul's literature. Supposedly, it had to do with the Dwemer, but it was like if the Songs of the Return had been edited so Ysgramor was a tonal architect and his Companions were automatons. It was about that accurate to actual Dwemer history. "As well as you'd expect," he said. "Echallos cried a little."

"How did you even—oh, uh, come in." Zaryth stepped aside to give him room to enter. "How did you even get his literature?"

"It was in the same pile as that nonsense book about Vivec," Thorald showed himself inside as he talked. It'd been a little while since he'd been in here. He figured there was probably going to be plenty to look at.

And he was right. The lab's outer shelves didn't have nearly as much random Dwemer junk on them. Instead, there were a whole lot of devices he'd never seen before. Right by the enchanting table, a fist-sized chunk of Aetherium ore was sitting in a ringed metal frame, surrounded by miniature Dwemer focusing lenses. Then not far from that, there was a thing. On the other side of the room, over by the bed, there was a big, wide Dwemer bowl, filled with what looked like some kind of silver-white metallic liquid.

Thorald pointed to the bowl curiously. "What's this, now?"

Behind him, Zaryth closed the doors once again. "Oh, that's, uh… that's some concentrated Aetherial essence. For lack of a better term, right now. The Dragonborn showed me how to extract it. He thought it might help with the stabilizing work."

"Where did it come from?"

"Aetherius, obviously." The Dunmer shrugged idly. "I think it's in the same general family of materials as Aetherium, but I haven't had much chance to study it. I'm sure it'll make some sort of sense later."

"Right." Thorald turned to lean back against the shelf. He really rather liked it in this lab. It might've been far from anything else in the city, but it felt so cozy and safe, it was practically a second home for him by now. That thought made him smile.

He was jolted from his thoughts by a gentle squeeze. Zaryth had come up to him and was giving him a full-on embrace. She smelled like warm soft ash, like she always did. That was starting to be the same as the smell of love, in Thorald's mind.

"So," he said. "You've really talked to the Dragonborn now? What was he like?"

Zaryth replied from against his shoulder. "Very nice, as it happens. I presume you knew him well, when he was around here more?"

"Well, I did hug him once," Thorald shrugged.

The Dunmer chuckled under her breath, then leaned away from him to rest against the shelf by his side. "It felt a little strange, meeting him for the first time when everyone else has already just about said their goodbyes to him. But I'm not new to being in the company of world-changing heroes. And before you say it, no, I'm not just talking about you."

Honestly, Thorald hadn't expected to be on the list at all. But he indeed had known the Dragonborn, during the man's time in Blackreach. His name was Iseus Maro, and he was a charming, good-natured Imperial fellow who just happened to also be a ruthlessly practical warrior-leader. Thorald felt like he'd been following in Iseus' footsteps for a while now, even if Iseus was something like ten years younger than him.

He asked, "Who else, then?"

Zaryth's expression sobered up a little. Maybe this was time to talk about important things again. "Have you ever heard of the Nerevarine?"

"Some sort of hero in Morrowind, right?" Thorald smiled sheepishly. He really was doing his best to learn all the important bits of history he could, particularly seeing as Zaryth seemed to know so many already.

Thankfully, she seemed to take it in stride. "In a sentence, yes. It's… well, perhaps it's a story best saved for another time. But the Dragonborn reminded me of him. He had a similar sort of attitude."

Thorald nodded appreciatively. Really, he had no idea who this Nerevarine was, but it was nice to know that Iseus was still out there doing his work. At the same time, he had to wonder—what kind of threat were they up against, if the man responsible for the Oblivion Purge could do no more than slow it down?

One that was being caused by Alduin, apparently. Maybe the World-Eater had spent his time between lives training up.

"What are we going to do, Zaryth? This is huge. The Dragonborn is busy keeping Alduin from just ending the world right now. Someone somewhere is playing with Aetherium shards. We're not going to just wait, are we?"

"No," Zaryth shook her head. "I didn't want to say this in front of everyone, since it's sensitive information, but the Aetherium is being used to make a special locking device, one that the Dragonborn will be able to use to bring our world's Aetherial connections under control. Or at least it will be, once the rest of the shards are acquired. The problem is that that's not going to stop Alduin. It'll just stop this one crisis he's trying to cause."

Thorald folded his arms and frowned. "I don't suppose we have a plan for how to kill Alduin. Whatever the Dragonborn did last time, it obviously didn't work."

"By what I can tell, we simply don't know enough to make such a plan. I'm going to need to start looking for some answers, as are we all, I suppose." Zaryth blew out a long, slow sigh. "When I came down here… when I first came down here, I'll admit, it did feel rather too good to be true. Is it normal for all of our work to get tied up with saving the world?"

"More or less," Thorald shrugged. He appreciated that Zaryth was calling the inhabitants of Blackreach by 'us' now. For some reason, that stuck out more to him than everything else in that whole reply.

But still, she wasn't looking very happy right then, so the Nord reached over and took her in a slow, gentle hug. "It'll be all right," he said softly. "I'll be all right, you'll be all right. We'll get through this just fine."

"I'm probably going to outlive you by a couple centuries," Zaryth said, sort of muffled against his chest. "I was thinking about that earlier."

That got a snort out of him. "Oh, don't be so narrow-minded. Have you seen the kind of magic we do around here? I'll just do some insane magical process so I live as long as you."

The Dunmer laughed out loud, still muffled at first, before pulling away and looking up at him. "Did you just call a Telvanni mage narrow-minded?"

"Oh, I know, and I'm just a big Nord warrior. What will all the other mages think?" Thorald gave her a play-act miserable pout. "Such a scandal. We're all doomed."

Maybe there was something to be said for expectations. Zaryth had had the entire Fourth Era, plus a few decades before that, to learn all the limits of magic. Thorald had barely known anything about magic for most of his life, and then had his idea of the world reinvented repeatedly over less than a year's span.

"I think I'm going to have to duel you for my proud honorable mage honor now." Zaryth grinned up at him, hugging tightly up against his front.

Or he could just stop studying everything for a minute and enjoy the moment. He looked down at her with just a bit of a wry smile. "I'm sure we can meet this with a more peaceful resolution," he murmured. "Like we need an excuse for seconds."

At times like this, he didn't have a hard time seeing why his idea of the world kept changing. There was so much to be in awe of.


	36. Aicantar 7

Tirdas, 5:54 PM, 40th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Alftand

It was funny. Aicantar had left his home in Markarth behind weeks ago. He wasn't even sure he'd ever go back there again. Alftand was his home now, after all. But he'd just been starting to get used to this place, and then Markarth had come here after him.

The first arrivals had come yesterday morning. They'd been in a huge convoy of wagons, all together, all at once. Aicantar had spent most of that day down in Blackreach. It'd been the last day for him to work on the propylon indices. Now he was free to go back to his business in Alftand, and… it was a whole lot different now.

From what he'd heard, it'd been a real ordeal, receiving so many people so quickly. Alftand had a population of about a thousand, and the convoy had brought exactly four hundred. Four hundred, all in one day! Sarelle and the others in Administration had been busy from dawn to dusk getting everyone processed and settled in.

And that might've been an ordeal enough, except that Alftand was receiving these new arrivals with a whole lot of tightened security. After that incident with the stolen machinery, Jarl Noster had imposed a new set of rules for searching and inspecting incoming and outgoing cargo, from backpacks to crates to barrels—everything had to be examined. And then four hundred people had shown up, all with their own possessions in tow. The guards had gotten a whole lot of on-the-job practice, to put it nicely.

But then it wasn't done there, either, because the searching actually paid off. One of the guards had pried open a cargo crate to find that the entire thing was filled with bottles of skooma. The guard, of course, responded by promptly alerting the others, and they poured every single bottle into the snow outside. As a rule, the race of Khajiit might have been welcome in Alftand, but their signature contraband was not.

Actually, the owner of that skooma couldn't have been a Khajiit. It was impossible for them to move here from any other city, Markarth included. Aicantar wondered whose the skooma had been. No one seemed to know.

And honestly, the Altmer was pretty thankful he'd been so busy in Blackreach. He didn't think he would've wanted to be up in Alftand for all of this. He had the luxury of being here only for the aftermath. He'd gone down the lift just after hearing about the convoy showing up, when he'd come up later, he'd gone to his room to find three strangers taking up the empty beds. Simple as that.

So here he was, on the 40th of Second Seed, which by the way was a completely insane date. He was just sitting on his bedside, across from Cairine, one of his new roommates. She was a Breton, deathly thin and pale, with scraggly brown hair around what should have been a nice youthful face, if it didn't look so gaunt and bony. At the moment, she was just leaning back on the wall and staring off into space.

"You're quiet," Aicantar said.

This was how most of the new arrivals looked. It'd been long enough since the liberation of Markarth that they weren't all too bad, but the fact of the matter was, they'd been starving to death.

"I just realized," Cairine murmured. Her voice was so tiny and frail, even now. She had a bit of a vacant look on. "These rooms are what Alftand's giving off to people like me. We have these in place of the Warrens."

The Warrens. Now, there was someplace Aicantar hadn't spent much time around. They were the half-finished tunnels and vaults under Markarth that got used as a sort of living space for the poor. Which was a lot of people.

It was quite a comparison. Aicantar couldn't help but chuckle. "I suppose you're right. We don't exactly have to pay for this, do we?"

"You were a… court wizard's nephew, weren't you?" Cairine rolled her head to face him, squinting curiously.

"That's right," Aicantar nodded. "Well, I still am, strictly speaking. He's not dead, as far as I know."

"… I thought the Thalmor killed everyone up there."

He shrugged. "Well, not the court wizard. They only killed the useful people."

At that, Cairine laughed out loud. "Oh, you lucky lot. Up there in your Understone Keep. Now you're in that big secret Blackreach cave, too, aren't you?"

"Ahh, I wouldn't call that part lucky. The only people who go down there are the people the Dragonborn needs for his work. The living conditions are just as cushy up here. The Dwemer knew how to look after themselves." Aicantar patted the bedding beside him. Which was a little silly of him, probably. Of all the nice little amenities Alftand had to offer, the soft beds were pretty much the only one to _not_ be a product of its being a Dwemer city.

The Breton scowled at him. "Didn't know how to eat, though."

Now _he_ was laughing. Someday, some distant day far in the future, maybe Alftand would serve bearable meals. But he wasn't counting on it. "It's a popular theory around here that the Dwemer just didn't know how to do anything enjoyable. Of any kind. You heard about the beds, right?"

"Aye, I heard about the beds. Bare stone still would've been a step up from sleeping in filth like before." As she spoke, Cairine looked down at the bed beneath her, and laid a hand on it, sort of like Aicantar had done. Except much more thoughtfully. "I was sick, for a long time. Kept me from working. I could've died. And that was before the Thalmor took over."

"You seem better now," Aicantar offered.

"Sure, once the city was retaken, we all got plenty of love. Doesn't change that we could've all been dead by then. I could've."

A little time went by in silence. Cairine was just staring numbly at the ground in front of her. She looked to be barely even focused.

Eventually, Aicantar asked, "… You all right?"

"Mmm." The Breton nodded her head slowly, still seemingly not paying attention. "I s'pose you'll find out sooner or later, from someone. Only a matter of time."

That was ominous. A little more than ominous, actually. This had been a normal conversation so far, but now, all of a sudden, it was… something else. Aicantar's words came much more hesitantly this time. "Uh… hold on, what are you… what are you talking about?"

Even now, she wasn't looking at him. She was just looking down somewhere. "A lot of people starved in Markarth. Bodies… dead bodies, in the Warrens, under the ground, where no one would see. We all should've starved, when the Thalmor took our food away. The only ones who were there were Namira's people. They kept us alive. So many bodies, it was… it was all the same."

Aicantar put a hand to his mouth. He didn't have to guess what Cairine was implying. He knew what Namira had been. The Daedric Prince whose sphere consisted of all things revolting. And her servants had been in the Warrens, with all the corpses piling up. This was how the poorest in Markarth had survived these months.

After everything he'd seen, it didn't even shock him that much. But he was thinking back on those weeks in Understone Keep, how he'd been so terrified to live in his own home… and here was this poor woman in front of him, who'd been forced through so much worse. It made him wonder how he must have seemed to them all.

Markarth had come here after him, all right. The Markarth that the Thalmor had had their way with. They'd reduced the city's poor to eating each other's bodies to survive. And these were the people coming to Alftand. He had no idea what to expect from them now.

At least Namira was gone for good. Someone really needed to do something similar to the Thalmor.

Cairine looked up at Aicantar slowly. "You don't even _have_ meat in Alftand, do you?"

"Uh, umm, it," he fumbled beautifully for words, "we, uh… uh… not really? You can't grow meat in a hydro farm, so no. Just that bean stuff."

"Small price to pay, I suppose. Might still be better than having to eat meat anymore."

Gods, it was even worse than he'd thought. They'd just established the awfulness of Alftand's food a few minutes ago.

Naturally, it was at that exact moment that Aicantar heard the distant ringing of the city's bells. If they could be called that, anyway. He knew what this meant. Six o'clock. Time for dinner.

Slowly, he pushed himself off his bed, and headed for the door. "So, still want more bean stuff?"

The lower dining hall was filling up quickly. The room was already filled with the noise of pleasant conversation between peers, but Aicantar knew barely anyone in here. Just a whole lot of pale skinny short people. Bretons. The standard light work clothes looked a bit large on them. They were all getting in line to get their food, so Aicantar hurried over and got his place as quickly as he could. It wasn't that he was looking forward to the food or anything, he just wanted to make sure he could get a seat next to Sarelle.

Wherever she was. He wasn't actually seeing her anywhere in here. Hopefully she wasn't stuck doing more paperwork. If she didn't show up for dinner, Aicantar was going to bring a tray of food to Administration and _make_ her stop to eat.

Aicantar grabbed a tray of his own off the wall rack on the way into the kitchen, where a few people in aprons and hats were working away in a lot of noise and heat, and few more were serving people at a stone counter as they came by. He couldn't actually tell what they were cooking, but it smelled rather like mushrooms in here at the moment.

Truth be told, the whole bean-mush thing was a little bit exaggerated. There actually were mushrooms down here, as well, and Alftand imported a lot of extra food and herbs and so on to make it more bearable. Aicantar's tray ended up being filled by a bowl of mashed hydro bean blend with frost mirriam, with a single big roasted mushroom on a plate, and a goblet of cold pure water.

The real item of importance here was the frost mirriam. Without any flavoring at all—and there often wasn't—the bean blend tasted sort of like wet flour, failed potion brew, and chalk dust. A few herbs went a long way to make his dinner less miserable.

When the Altmer came back out into the dining hall, he spotted Sarelle standing right there in line. He waved to her and immediately went to find the emptiest table section he could, which ended up being on pretty much the far corner of the room. It wasn't that he wanted to avoid everyone, really, even if they were strangers. He liked meeting new people. He just didn't want to end up giving Sarelle no place to sit by him.

That being said, he did still sort of have it on his mind that a lot of these people from Markarth had been forced to eat their deceased neighbors to survive. It wasn't worth getting worked up over, probably. Even if it was a terrible thought. They probably weren't exactly ecstatic about it themselves.

He didn't wait for anyone to join him before he began eating. This stuff wouldn't stay hot forever, and if there was one thing worse than a bowl of hot chalky bean mush, it was a bowl of _cold_ chalky bean mush. He put that all down his throat first. While he sat and ate, a few people sat across from him with their own meals, which was fine. And kind of not really worth stopping eating for, at the moment. Again, cold bean mush.

On the other hand, the mushroom was all right. Sort of zesty, and still full of hot moisture from getting roasted. The laborers grew a whole bunch of different kinds of mushroom around here, which was nice, because otherwise Aicantar would've gotten completely sick of them long since. In any case, just around when he was halfway through the mushroom on his plate, a pair of nice, delicate-looking hands laid a full tray on the table just by his left.

It was Sarelle, here at last. She sat down heavily right by the Altmer, and let out a long, miserable sigh. "Hello," she said, eventually.

By that point, Aicantar had had time to give her a good look over. Beautiful as always, he thought. He'd seen a lot of this woman, these past fifteen days. It'd been fifteen days ago, exactly fifteen, that she'd given him that one life-changing kiss on the cheek. She'd shown him entire new worlds since then.

Was it strange to count the days since something like that happened? Aicantar wasn't even doing it on purpose. He'd just never really been with someone before, and Sarelle was as close to perfect as they came.

Every evening, after finishing his work in Blackreach, he'd had Sarelle to look forward to. Today was the first day he'd spent waiting for her in Alftand instead. And he'd been looking forward to their time together as much as ever. It was a little disheartening to see her so stressed. She was always beautiful, even now, but it was so much better when she was smiling. Maybe that could change soon.

"Oh, Divines, you sound sad." Aicantar put an arm around Sarelle's side and hugged her close. She still smelled like snowberries. "Long day?"

That made her laugh, but it wasn't really a happy laugh. It just sounded defeated. "Ahh… You don't even know. There was so much to get through. We got everyone in yesterday, but… It is good to see you, let me tell you that."

A couple of the new arrivals across the table offered Sarelle a sympathetic smile. One of them, some older-looking man who didn't seem too overly starved, asked, "How many people did you have to process?"

"I don't know. I lost count. I've been using a quill all day. My wrist is hurting like you wouldn't believe." Sarelle pulled away from Aicantar and started eating. She was handling her spoon with her left hand, which was going a little awkwardly for her. "Mmm. We got everyone's information written down yesterday, everyone got their keys and all, but it's still a mess. We have work teams wanting to scour our lists for qualified laborers, the teachers are trying to figure out who to add to their classes, the whole damn city's just scrambling to fit all the new people into the daily workings. I really… I really hope this works out."

"It probably will," Aicantar said mildly, in between bites of his mushroom. Honestly, he never heard that much about what Sarelle did with her work. Whenever she talked, she was a lot more interested in what Aicantar was up to, which was actually kind of amazing. No one was interested in that.

Of course, at the moment, he was totally fine hearing about Sarelle's workday. It was generally just better to listen than to talk. People liked to talk about themselves, after all. Sarelle had actually pointed that out to him, one time. Might as well let her have a turn.

"Dammit, I don't even want to eat the…" Sarelle interrupted her sentence by putting a spoonful of bean stuff in her mouth. She washed it down with a big mouthful of water. "All right. … Ahh. It's been interesting how everyone's reacting. I sort of expected everyone to get all anxious about the _big scary armies_ of Markarth all pouring in, but instead, I have an endless gods-damn list of work team leaders wanting anyone with half a minute of experience working with Dwemer things."

Aicantar finished off his mushroom with a contented sigh. "An endless list, huh? Sounds like Imperial paradise."

"Exactly, thank you." Sarelle went quiet as she resumed eating. She probably wanted to get it all down while it was hot, too.

While she was doing that, the Altmer asked his new neighbors across the table, "How _have_ you been liking it in Alftand so far?"

"It's fine," the older fellow said. "Bad food's still better than starving."

"That's what I'm hearing, yep," Aicantar nodded, a little ruefully. He really hoped these people from Markarth would be able to pay attention to something besides the fact that they were able to actually eat their fill of food now.

On the other hand, that would probably be when problems would start coming up. Once everyone was able to take their survival for granted again, and start finding things to fight over.

He asked, "Did anyone ever find out who tried to get us all that skooma?"

The people across the table didn't really react. Sarelle said, "No one's confessed to bringing it, if that's what you mean. It was just in there with all the other crates from Solitude. We think it might've belonged to someone over there. And that makes it impossible to arrest anyone for, because the Haafingar guards can't work off of crimes in the Winterhold."

"What? … Really?" Aicantar frowned. "That's stupid."

"Yes, it is, but that's what you get when each hold is its own little province. They all keep their own records of criminals. If we wanted to see who sent us that skooma, we could try warning the guards there about it, in case the person tries to send more. But that actual shipment is a dead end. No one's ever going to face justice for it."

For his part, Aicantar wasn't exactly the most savvy individual for governing-type issues. He didn't know that much about how the law was handled, or why anything was arranged the way it was. Still, he wasn't beneath commenting on what he was hearing now. "That's _really_ stupid."

Across the table, the older Breton was starting to chuckle. It started out quiet, but he was just chuckling more and more, because of… something. The look on his face was a little incredulous.

Sarelle looked at him blankly. "What?"

The older Breton was just openly laughing now. "You lot are on about justice? Really? Is that how things work in Alftand? People care about that?"

Now Aicantar got it. He offered the man a mirthless smirk. "I guess it's not exactly like Markarth, is it?"

"I'm… not from Markarth," Sarelle said. She didn't sound like she had it in her to say anything more charming.

"Blood and silver, that was our motto. Used to be, anyway." The older Breton fixed her with a wry, almost sort of rueful look. "Those were the things that flowed through Markarth. Money. Power. And that's how Markarth worked. So what's _this_ place's motto? Food and drink?"

"You have to admit," Aicantar said, "it's quite a lot better on everyone."

But the man just shook his head slowly. "Sounds it. I'm still waiting for the catch. We all are. This is what we like to call, 'too good to be true'. So let me ask you—what's the catch?"

Sarelle shook her head back. "None. No catch. Except if you lot ruin this place with your blood-and-silver values. Alftand's a new city. It could be a nice place if you let it."

Aicantar asked, "What's your name, old man?"

"Uthyn," the man said. "You're that elf from Understone Keep, aren't you? Saw you on your little errands sometimes."

Well, that was a surprise. Aicantar didn't realize anyone had ever even noticed him. He nodded slowly. "That was me. I have to say, I don't miss Markarth at all. It was pretty awful."

The Breton man, Uthyn, sighed and sat back in his chair. At some point, he'd gotten through a lot of his food. "Well, the Silver-Blood family's all dead. So's the Thalmor, or the ones in Skyrim, at least. And now we're here. Guess that puts you lot at the top. I'll play nice if you do, I reckon. Can't speak for the others."

"If anyone doesn't, they're always welcome to head on back to Markarth," Sarelle smiled cheerfully.

Uthyn stared silently at her for a few seconds. Then he raised his eyebrows and went back to eating. "Damn. Lady's got it nailed down."

Aicantar and Sarelle exchanged a look of amusement. It _was_ beautiful when she smiled.

It was another couple of minutes before Sarelle was done eating. When she finished, she collected Aicantar's dishes on top of her own, and took them back to the kitchen for cleaning. Nobody else was really doing that yet, but that was because everyone was busy talking instead.

While he waited, the Altmer stood up from his seat and ambled on over to the doorway to the rest of the city. He wasn't leaving yet. He just leaned casually against the wall by the doors, and… let his mind wander.

It was pretty loud in here. If it went like any other evening, it would quiet down as people finished their dinners and left, then get louder again when the evening crowd came in and started getting drunk. Presumably, that was the part where people would be drinking that moonshock stuff.

He realized, as he was standing there, that he was probably the only person in the entire room to have talked at length with the person who'd created moonshock to begin with. Did they even know it came from a Khajiit? They must have. It was called gods-damned 'moonshock' for a reason. Though … surprisingly, the reason wasn't because it actually contained moon sugar. It wasn't skooma. It was just made by someone from the race obsessed with moons.

A delicate hand tapped on his shoulder. He jolted a little. "Eh?"

"C'mon." Sarelle's face was right next to his. She was smiling again. "Let's go."

And that was their dinner dealt with. The two of them walked on out into the city without a second glance.

Alftand, being a sprawling underground Dwemer city, was completely crammed with secluded little spaces for people to be alone in. In their case, it wasn't for anything serious, really. It was more that it was hard to have a really personal moment when everyone was always in public. So pretty soon, the two of them were heading through a side hallway into one of Alftand's machine junction rooms. It was basically just a little square room full of winding pipes and turning gears. The grinding of the city's machinery was very plainly audible in here.

Comfortable? Sort of debatable. Secluded? Definitely. This certainly wasn't the first time they'd gone in here. It was just a nice place to be away from everyone else.

Sarelle closed the doors behind them, then sat down with her back to them, burying her face in her hands on the way.

"You look exhausted," Aicantar astutely commented as he sat down beside her.

"You're great," Sarelle said through her hands, before leaning over and hugging tightly around the Altmer's side. That gave him a real thrill, just feeling her do that. Somehow, and he honestly didn't know how it worked, Sarelle somehow managed to be really firm holding him, but really soft and gentle at the same time.

He just laid his head back and smiled. After a moment, he put an arm around Sarelle's back, to hold her close the same way. "Well, you can count on me being around a lot more now. For whatever that's worth, I suppose, with you being so busy."

The Breton had just been starting to lay her head against his shoulder. She picked it up again and looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Oh well, uh… I finished my project down there yesterday, so they don't really need me anymore, I don't think." It was a little hard to think of Blackreach as being a thing of the past for him now. But the facts were what they were—people didn't go down there except for when they had to, and Aicantar didn't have to be down there. They'd needed his help just that one time, and it was over.

"Huh." Sarelle laid her head back down quickly enough. "What're you planning to do now?"

Aicantar paused for a second. For some reason, he hadn't been expecting that question. "I dunno, actually. I spent today mostly just thinking about that. But maybe there'll be some way for me to help with the Markarth thing, or… I mean, I did live there, myself. So maybe that, uh…"

Sarelle made a thoughtful noise. She always sounded so cute when she made noises like that. It was hard to describe. "Honestly… honestly, I think you might have better luck in Blackreach."

Now, that was a surprise. "Really? … You think? I mean, I just finished there, they don't need me."

"Not for what they're working on now, but I know how it goes in Blackreach. All you really need to do is go down there and start showing an interest in the place. The rest will just happen on its own. It'd be a lot easier than dealing with all the _business_ up here."

As surprising ideas went, this one wasn't the most unprecedented. It just sounded too good. He'd already been sort of wondering if he'd ever make it back into Blackreach, but as he thought about it now, he realized that he'd been afraid to really let himself hope for it. It'd just been so much more… engaging, than anything up here in Alftand. This place was a Dwemer city, but Sarelle was right—it was full of business now. And Aicantar didn't want to do business. He wanted to do magic.

"I might just try that out tomorrow," he murmured. "I bet J'zargo would be happy to see me."

Sarelle exhaled sharply. Her voice came with a bit of mirth. "Oh, he's happy to see everyone. Doubly so for other mages, I imagine."

Aicantar leaned his head on top of the Breton's. It was a nice little layering, with the two of them. "… You're not getting jealous, are you?"

"Pff, _what?_ " Her voice hit an impressively high register. "Why would I be jealous of some cat? Oh, please. You're joking. You've got to be joking. Pff. … Cats."

"If it makes you feel better, I did actually turn him down for that sort of thing already," Aicantar deadpanned. Or he tried to, anyway. He was struggling so hard not to laugh right now.

"Well, far be it from me to get in the way of your special magic. I'm just a lowly list-maker." By the sound of it, Sarelle was having the same struggle herself. "Oh, gods, I miss that fellow."

A lowly list-maker. Aicantar was definitely laughing a little bit now. "This is your problem, you know. You're just doing what Imperials love. Follow your dreams, Sarelle."

"Ahhh… I suppose I should follow my own advice once in a while, right?" With that, Sarelle pulled away from him just enough to raise her face up to his own. Oh, what a beautiful smile she had. It got him every time. "I know I've said it before, but that really is my favorite thing about you. You're not the type for business. You're the type for things that feel right."

"Like you, for example."

"I'm all kinds of flattered." Sarelle settled in to embrace him a little more tightly, putting herself right up against him, letting him just feel her as she was. It was so nice. He wanted to just lean over and—

There was a loud, metallic noise from the ceiling. Aicantar jolted upright a bit, and turned to look at the sound's source. A grated vent, previously closed, was hanging wide open, revealing a dark enclosed space above.

A moment later, a white-and-gray shape poured out of the open hole and thudded hard on the floor. It was a person. A young, slight-looking Dunmer, wearing light work clothes with a tool belt. This—actually, Aicantar completely knew who this was.

Sarelle let go of him and stood up. "Rem! What are you doing in here?!"

The Dunmer had landed on her front in an ungraceful heap. She picked herself up and looked at Sarelle, then Aicantar. The look on her face was somewhere between indignity and suspicion. "Uh… I'm working. I was working. What are _you_ doing?"

"Trying to find someplace private," Aicantar grunted, as he pushed himself up to his feet as well. He was so much taller than both of the other people in here. It felt a little weird.

"Well, don't," Rem frowned.

Sarelle pointed to the ceiling. "How did you even get up there?"

Rem looked behind her where Sarelle was pointing. "Uh…" Then she turned back with a shrug. "I was using an access tunnel to dislodge some debris in one of the air filters. This was the quickest way back out. Did I miss dinner?"

"That was a while ago," Sarelle said, quite a bit crossly. But then she stopped, and took a breath in, and shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry, you're doing good work. I just… I don't get it. Do you just have an interest in jumping out of high spaces?"

The Dunmer squinted at her. "What? I don't—" But then she apparently realized something, because she began shaking her head vigorously. "Ohh, no. Ohhhh, no. Enough of that. No no no no no."

Aicantar glanced between the two of them expectantly. "… What am I missing?"

For some reason, just that question made Sarelle laugh out loud. She laid a hand on Aicantar's shoulder in a confiding sort of gesture. "Oh, all right. Might as well tell you about this. It's Rem's greatest moment. She doesn't like to talk about it, but it really deserves telling. So… Rem here used to be a thief in Windhelm. She was in with the best of them. Poor, maybe, hungry, maybe, but she was there."

No surprise there, Aicantar thought. Meanwhile, Rem herself was standing there and seething quietly.

Sarelle ignored Rem's reaction and kept going. "One day, she snuck into a rich noble family's house, she was hungry, she wanted food, they had a pheasant roasting on the fire—but just as she went to grab it, the lady of the house came in the front door! She had to vault right over the hearth to escape, and in the process, she knocked the pheasant down into the fire. And it could've burned to a crisp, but she grabbed it anyway, and ran right up the stairs. From there, the only way out was by the bedroom window. So she ran at it and dove through, fists first, right through the glass panes, with the flaming pheasant in her teeth."

Aicantar stared silently.

Sarelle added, "The guards saw the whole thing, but they were too stunned to try to make an arrest. She just got up, put out the pheasant, brushed off the bits of glass, and walked away with her dinner."

At this point, Rem just couldn't take it anymore. She waved her arms furiously at Sarelle and started sputtering for a reply. "No! That's—ghthat's not what happened! At all! I didn't _jump_ out! And it—oh my ghghh gods, come on, it wasn't on fire! The pheasant was _not_ on fire!"

A couple seconds went by. The only sound was the machinery next to them. Sarelle folded her arms skeptically. "Really? Why don't you summon your ghost friend and see what _he_ has to say?"

Rem gave her a puzzled, indignant look. "What, Bryn? He wasn't even there, he was in Riften. Why do you people keep doing this to me?"

"I don't know," Aicantar grinned. "That sounds like something to be proud of."

"Easy for you to say," Rem spat. She was so ferociously bitter-sounding, it was amazing. "I'm just trying to have a normal existence here. Is that too much to ask? Is—is that too much? Because at this rate, the story's going to be that I transformed into a pheasant and fought a dragon outside."

"That's a really good idea," Sarelle murmured thoughtfully.

The Dunmer stared at her for a second, then put her head in her hands and sighed. "All right. Fine. It's funny. I _was_ actually hungry, though, you know. The Gray Quarter was terrible."

Sarelle's tone softened. She really did sound soothing, when she wanted to. "Don't feel too bad, Rem. You're safe now. You're in Alftand. You'll never, ever run out of delicious food."

Aicantar wasn't sure whether to laugh or to gag. His belly was still full of all that stuff from earlier.

"Good plan, I'm going to have dinner now. And it's going to be _amazing_." Rem strode forward and walked right on out of the room, passing around Sarelle and Aicantar by a wide berth. The moment she'd gone through the doors, she sped up to a run. Her footsteps receded into the distance until they blended in with the noise of the machinery.

A little more time went by without anything being said. Aicantar looked at Sarelle expectantly.

"She left that thing open," Sarelle said, pointing at the ceiling port Rem had fallen through. The grate was still hanging sideways.

Aicantar raised his hand towards the grate and lit up a soft orange spell aura. It swung closed by itself and clicked into place.

"I like her," he said, after a moment. "I hope she's not angry with me now."

Sarelle waved dismissively. "Ahh, probably not. It's just sort of a thing with her. She does well with her work, though. The Jarl pays her to help keep this place running, and… that's good for her."

Aicantar nodded. That made sense. Obviously, at some point, Rem had been using her talents on picking locks. This was probably better for everyone involved. "… I'm still probably going to go back to Blackreach, though."

"Figures," the Breton smiled a little. "Just try and remember to come back up in the evenings, all right? It's so cold and lonely without you."

"You know you can count on me against that cold," Aicantar replied flatly, before relaxing and walking towards the door. "That did sort of kill the moment just now, didn't it? … Rem falling out of the ceiling for no reason?"

"I think what we should take away from this is that we need to look for an even more remote place to be together." As she joined him in walking out into the corridor, Sarelle grinned and put an arm around his side once again.

More likely than not, Aicantar was going to head back to his room after this. And he just knew he'd have a little bit of Markarth waiting for him when he did. That wasn't exactly a happy reminder—but on the other hand, Markarth wasn't the limit of his world anymore. Now, he could balance it out with the knowledge that Blackreach was going to be waiting for him too.


	37. Zaryth 6

Middas, 10:11 AM, 41st of Second Seed, 4E 202

J'zargo's Field Laboratory

This was just a little embarrassing. Zaryth prided herself on her thorough precautionary measures—any mage required them in order to survive their own work for long, especially one who specialized in illusion. Never was it wise to take one's safety entirely for granted. So it was rather embarrassing indeed, when she came up to J'zargo's laboratory, and found a Dwemer metal life-sensor plate fixed on the wall beside the doors. This made J'zargo's laboratory actually more secure than Zaryth's own.

How had she never thought to put something more than a mere mechanical lock on her door? Had she assumed that no hostile entity would ever attempt to gain entry to her workspace? She wasn't sure the possibility had even occurred to her before now.

Fortunately, she'd registered her life-signs with Blackreach Hold's devices quite some time ago, so when she laid her palm on the sensor plate by the door, the corresponding lock disengaged without any trouble. For J'zargo's sake, she knocked on the door anyway. Magic was easily interrupted at inopportune times.

The Khajiit's voice immediately called out from inside, "Enter!"

This was actually the first time she'd entered this building. But the interior was much the same as her own laboratory. There was a bed on the left end, and a typical assortment of magical equipment on the right. The walls were lined with a variety of shelves, chests and other furniture. Directly ahead, on the back wall, was a fireplace, and sitting by it on a couple chairs were the lab's two occupants. Zaryth stopped in place at the sight of them.

One of them was clearly J'zargo, but she nearly failed to recognize him. In place of his humble worker's clothing, he was wearing a sleek black suit of leather armor, with Blackreach's sigil on its chest, and an outfit of matching black cloth underneath. The other was an Altmer whom Zaryth had never seen before. He was young, likely about J'zargo's age, and fairly handsome for his race. Unlike his peer, however, he seemed content with the standard clothing for Blackreach Hold.

"Good morning," J'zargo said pleasantly.

Zaryth squinted at him. "What are you _wearing?_ "

The Altmer, whoever he was, laughed loudly. "All right! I'm not the only person who reacted that way!"

"Khajiit's outfit has been much better-received among Blackreach's warriors," J'zargo said sourly, before composing himself and gesturing to the Altmer beside him. "Zaryth, this is Aicantar. He assisted with the propylon indices. Aicantar, this is Zaryth. You assisted with the propylon indices for her."

The Altmer, Aicantar, immediately stood up and extended his hand to Zaryth. "It's an honor to finally meet you," he said brightly. "I've heard a lot about you."

Zaryth met the hand warily with her own. "What have you heard, exactly?"

"Well, first of all, I was reading your literature long before I came here. I'm Calcelmo's nephew. The… court wizard in Markarth?" He didn't seem particularly thrilled to be mentioning the fact, which was understandable. As archaeologists of the Dwemer went, Calcelmo was known for being among the less actually adventurous. He was known for being more of a collector than a scholar.

Still, there was no need to rub it in. The Dunmer nodded politely. "I've heard of him. What else?"

"I was amazed to hear that you were here in Blackreach. The opportunity to meet a Telvanni mage in person… I'm—honestly, I'm… completely beyond honored right now. I knew you were down here, but I didn't even think I could meet you. Just… this is really something. Can I help you, by the way?"

The mention of her literature aside, this was turning out to be rather strange. No one in Blackreach had recognized Zaryth for her previous background before. Being reminded of those things now, she felt… she definitely felt strange. The best she could describe of it was that it felt like Aicantar was somehow speaking of her incorrectly. She replied, "You already did. I came here to check on J'zargo, and hopefully speak with him about a few magical matters. You can stay if you like."

"You can take this one's chair," J'zargo said, before standing up from his seat and walking over to the magical equipment. There were a couple more chairs over there, and he dragged it back to the middle of the room for himself, just by Aicantar's side. By that time, Zaryth had already closed the doors and sat down on the previous chair.

Aicantar said, "The indices were really exciting to work on. I've never been part of such a huge project before. Or… any project, really, besides my own experiments in Markarth. Mysticism, huh?"

"The lost school," Zaryth answered, by way of confirmation. "I suppose you'll be pleased to know that the indices have been distributed. But before we proceed, I do have a question for you both. Mainly you, J'zargo. Why does your door have a life-detection lock on it?"

"A little extra security cannot hurt," J'zargo shrugged.

"In Blackreach, though?"

"This may not be as meaningful to you in the Silent City, but J'zargo's laboratory is only a stone's throw from the exit to Alftand. Once, an Aldmeri invasion force came within moments of accessing that exit. Such an incident is unlikely to repeat itself, but it serves as a reminder that one must not take one's own safety for granted."

Zaryth nodded slowly. She thought she understood that. J'zargo's experiences here were very different from her own. "Hence the armor, I suppose?"

"It complements mage armor spells well enough. And, in this one's opinion, it looks rather splendid." The Khajiit glanced down at himself and grinned. There was no accounting for style, it seemed.

In any case, that was Zaryth's cue to move on. Her question had been answered. It was time to ask another. "So… Aicantar. What, uh… what are you planning on doing now?"

"Well, that's actually what I came down here to find out. I don't have any other projects waiting for me, so I've been talking to J'zargo here." The Altmer gave J'zargo a vague acknowledging gesture. "I suppose the big issue now is the Shadow Unending, isn't it? There are bits of Aetherium ore all over Alftand, it's a bit of a… constant daily reminder, I suppose. That, and the fact that today is the 41st of Second Seed."

"It does point to the severity of this event," J'zargo commented.

And that was true. In recent days, Zaryth had been made very acutely aware of just how catastrophic the Shadow Unending could be, if it continued for much longer. Not even Blackreach would be safe in the end. The last time she had dealt with a crisis of this degree, it had involved a storm of Oblivion gates all over Tamriel.

She said, "That is, as it happens, the main reason why I took the trip over here just now." Then she paused, thoughtfully. "… That, and I'm always happy to find a chance to ride the shuttle. Riding that thing is a bit of an intrinsic reward."

"Oh, so that's not just me?" Aicantar laughed. "I spent ages waiting for an excuse to ride the shuttle. It's incredible, isn't it?"

"Well, it actually is very interesting on a scholarly level, as well," Zaryth said. "For example, the aerodynamics of the shuttle's outer plating and the usage of elevated pillars contribute to a visual and kinetic phenomenon that suggests that the Dwemer were actually willing to have fun for once in their lives."

Both of the other mages laughed aloud.

Zaryth allowed herself a little smile as she continued. "In all seriousness, the shuttles are true marvels of Dwemer engineering. Short of teleportation, there may be no faster means of transportation in all of Tamriel. That we're able to use them for our own purposes now is a magnificent privilege."

"Surely, the Dwemer would have been flattered to learn that one day, other races would use their wondrous craft for personal amusement," J'zargo said wryly.

"The teleportation _is_ faster, though," said Aicantar. "Which cities are linked up, now?"

Zaryth folded her arms and took a breath in. "So far, we have Markarth, Riften, Solitude, Whiterun and Windhelm. The other four hold capitals are lower priorities. Kamian has said that a link to Falkreath would be useful for future military excursions to Cyrodiil, but our priority now is the defense of Skyrim from the effects of the Shadow Unending."

It was very odd, she thought, for her to be speaking at length of such strategic matters. It was unlike a scholar to become involved in such concerns. But at the same time, she remembered how she had felt just now when Aicantar had taken note of her past accomplishments as a Telvanni mage. It felt like just that—something from the past. As recently as last month, even the Second War with the Dominion was a distant annoyance for her. Now, she was using her proficiency in magic to aid the strategic capabilities of Blackreach Hold, strengthening its war apparatus with every day of research and design. And the oddest thing of all was that she didn't particularly mind.

Blackreach needed her help, and she was equipped to offer it. And that goal, that aspiration to help this place's community in its goals, was a valid object of her attention and effort. It seemed that as of now, the pursuit of knowledge didn't need to be the only direction she had in her life.

Aicantar said, "That's still a good reason to link us up to Falkreath, though. Same for the other, uh… three, I suppose. Winterhold, Dawnstar, uh… what else…"

"Morthal," J'zargo offered.

"There's the one. So those four cities. Falkreath, Winterhold, Dawnstar, Morthal. Why haven't we gotten the columns set up in them?"

Zaryth couldn't keep the distaste off her face. "In a word? Politics. You'll have to talk to someone else about that. The columns are already built, but Jarl Noster said not to send them out yet, because… I don't know. Some people are under the delusion that not having those columns in their cities makes them somehow safer from the Black Machine."

"Safer?" Aicantar frowned. "What's to be safer from? The Black Machine _saved_ Markarth. If we'd had one of those columns last year, when the Thalmor first took over, the—the entire Reach would still be in one piece. It would!"

"Well, you don't need to convince me," the Dunmer grumbled.

This did bother her quite a lot. On one level, it felt like a waste to have ordered the construction of those columns when they weren't being put to use. But more than that, there were people out there interfering with Blackreach's goals. And they weren't even maleficent goals, in any way whatsoever. Why didn't people understand that?

After a couple seconds' silence, she composed herself and tried to resume her original line of thought. "But it is the Shadow Unending that brought me here today. Neither of you were there for my presentation in the Silent City, were you?"

Both of the other mages shook their heads.

"Well, the presentation lasted quite a while. I can repeat it from memory if you like, but we may be here for some time. Would… do you want me to go through it all now?"

Both of the mages nodded. Zaryth had been rather hoping they wouldn't. Her voice could only take so much use in a day before it began to wear out.

But it was what they had asked for, so she obliged them. She began with the premise of the Oblivion Purge, then went on to Alduin's return and subsequent transfixing of the stars. She even reused the plate-over-candle analogy. Then it was on to the shooting stars, the cave-ins, and all the other magical incidents that had been observed in recent weeks. The last, and longest, part of the retelling consisted of her theories regarding Aetherius, the material of Aetherium, and the probable future of Mundus if this persisted. It was far from an appealing picture.

She finished it all with, "So I suppose where this is going is that while you both did excellent work with the Propylon Indices, I'd prefer if you didn't stop there. Much work needs to be done if we're going to keep the Shadow Unending from laying waste to our world."

"So," J'zargo said, "you wish for us to assist you in saving the world."

"Well, yes. That is our business in Blackreach, isn't it?"

Aicantar laughed. He had a rather endearing sort of laugh to him. "I wouldn't—ah, I wouldn't know! I haven't even done anything down here, besides make those indices, and… uh… What do you normally do in Blackreach, anyway?"

J'zargo answered, "Principally, in Khajiit's experience, the mission of Blackreach has been to assist and manage the operations of the Black Machine. It is the Black Machine's stronghold, after all."

The Altmer paused for a moment, and squinted at him. "I thought it was the Dragonborn's stronghold. That's… that's what people call it in Alftand."

"Perhaps that was true, once. But no longer, strictly speaking, may it be called the Dragonborn's." J'zargo settled forwards in his seat, preparing to do some speaking of his own. "The Dragonborn conceived of using Blackreach as a stronghold, it is true. Originally, it was solely to protect against the Thalmor. And J'zargo was among the very first people to be brought into this place. But now, Noster oversees all of Blackreach Hold, Lenve handles its logistical needs, Kamian leads the Black Machine, and J'zargo himself supplies the more valuable potions. The Dragonborn has moved on to greater endeavors. Blackreach is now ours to care for."

This was fascinating to listen to. Zaryth had never realized that J'zargo had been here for so long. If he'd been here from the very beginning, then he must have witnessed more of the Dragonborn at work than nearly anyone else in the entire hold. Zaryth had to wonder what that must have been like. While she had met the man briefly, that was only the beginning of what she'd learned. By all accounts, the man had earned his legacy magnificently.

But suddenly, the thought struck her that the Dragonborn's legacy didn't mean terribly much for who he was. Thorald had a legacy, as the Black Machine's greatest soldier. Zaryth herself had a legacy as well, in some circles, as an accomplished Telvanni mage who had authored more than a few factual texts on the Dwemer. But none of these things meant anything for what sorts of people any of them truly were. Certainly, no one had spoken highly of Thorald for all the patience and compassionate insightfulness that Zaryth had seen so much of from him.

And so the question came to her, very naturally: "What was he like?"

It seemed to take J'zargo by surprise. He raised his eyebrows at the Dunmer curiously, and leaned back in his chair, as though bracing for a new challenge. "Who? The Dragonborn?"

"Yes, him. I've seen him, after a fashion, but if I'm to be honest, I don't… is this all right to ask? I'm not sure if it is."

"It is," J'zargo nodded quickly. "It is. But it is another long story. Khajiit came here in the company of three others. Noster Eagle-Eye, then no more than a veteran scout turned beggar, recently rescued from the streets of Solitude; Brynjolf, a prominent member of the Thieves Guild; and the Dragonborn himself. We descended by the Great Lift just outside, and… and it was magnificent. He had desired simply to show us his intended sanctuary from the Thalmor, where his devices of war would be developed. But… of the four of us, the Dragonborn is the only one to no longer be in Blackreach Hold. Even Brynjolf, who lost his life during Morokei's schism, has reappeared in Alftand as a projected spirit. It is only the Dragonborn whose time here is past."

A trace of emotion, a subtle unsteadiness had entered J'zargo's voice. He swallowed and shook his head for a moment before continuing. But as he did, Zaryth couldn't help but wonder what inspired that reaction in him. It wasn't as though the Dragonborn had died out there. Apparently, going by this Brynjolf individual, death wasn't even all that final anyway. What was J'zargo thinking right then?

"J'zargo dislikes referring to the Dragonborn by his title. His name is Iseus. And put simply, he changed J'zargo's life. It may not be apparent to you now, but once…" The Khajiit chuckled ruefully. "This one was not so compassionate. This one was born in Elsweyr, and rejected for his interest in the arcane, and so traveled all the way to the College of Winterhold to learn in the best school for pure study. The best place for a mage to become great."

"That's true, it is," Zaryth nodded.

"Indeed. And so it went, for a time, but one day, Iseus came to the College, requesting an interested mage to follow him on some great venture. And J'zargo wished for great things. Not long afterward, we were working side by side in this very laboratory. We worked together, we lived together… we talked a great deal. And as for Iseus, he was... incredibly kind." At this point, he paused again, to take a deep breath in. "How could it be, that such a powerful man would reject the prospect of domination? How could he refuse to enjoy the benefits of his own power? … He did question this one's assumptions about many things. But never did he judge for it. He merely invited J'zargo to join him in feeling empathy for all beings, whatever their kind. For it was in empathy that was the key to a better world."

"But then came the Aldmeri invasion, whereupon he was poisoned, and put near death. And not long after came the crisis of Morokei. J'zargo last saw Iseus on the 16th of Rain's Hand, the very day of the Oblivion Purge. Iseus… claimed that he was going to embark on a mission, and that he would… be away, for a long time. He would not describe his plans. But it was clear that he intended to give his farewell."

J'zargo leaned forwards and lay his head in his gloved hands. He remained like that for a moment, breathing deeply, before raising his face once again. His expression was so very deliberately controlled. Zaryth knew a person fighting to retain their composure when she saw them. It was never pretty.

He continued, "Since that day, J'zargo has lived here alone. Worked alongside many others, it is true, but… nothing can ever replace what this one felt, during that short, precious span of time. But so much has happened. The title of court wizard, free reign to work in Blackreach, more experience, more privilege than this one ever dreamed of. It would seem that in some sense, J'zargo has finally become great. … J'zargo thought it would feel better."

Aicantar leaned over and put his arms around J'zargo's shoulders. J'zargo took a long, shuddering breath in, and laid one of his hands on the Altmer's nearer wrist.

Zaryth didn't even know what to say. She'd expected something with feeling in it, but… not like this. She wanted to offer J'zargo some words of comfort, something to offset everything he'd described, and yet nothing was coming to mind.

Honestly, all she could think of right then was how this compared to herself. She'd been invited to Blackreach, too. And in her time here, she had indeed been given access to all manner of resources and assistance. And… it'd all been possible because of a very heroic person who'd taken her in and shown her what it meant to truly care for those around her. But she did care for that very heroic person most of all.

And looking at J'zargo now, she had to wonder how it would felt if Thorald did as Iseus had done—if one day, he left Blackreach and never returned. If, after all of this, he left Zaryth behind. How would that feel? Because she was watching someone go through those feelings right now.

Before she knew it, there were tears running down her own face. She wiped at them with the heels of her hands. It wasn't helping.

Some time went by in silence. Aicantar was still holding onto J'zargo. Nobody was saying anything. Eventually, Zaryth managed to calm herself down enough to at least start thinking again. If nothing else, that got the tears to stop. Those were so terribly difficult to deal with.

Almost immediately once she began thinking again, something occurred to her. It should have been obvious already, but in the midst of all that emotion… well, that didn't matter, at this point. But there was certainly no sense in remaining quiet about it now.

"Iseus did speak to me, you know," she said. "Not for long, and not by physically visiting Blackreach. I think he may be busy with this Shadow Unending business taking place. But he reached out to me, when he needed my help to make things work. I think you'll see him again in the future."

J'zargo looked up at her slowly. "That… well, Khajiit hopes so," he said, his voice much lower than before. "What once was, however, is likely gone. There can only be moving onward, to whatever the future may bring."

"Thank you for sharing all of that with us," Aicantar murmured. His cheek was on J'zargo's armored pauldron.

The Khajiit shrugged a little with the shoulder not being rested upon. "Those words had to be said, sometime. Let us proceed in our discussion."

At this point, Aicantar finally let go of the embrace, and turned to face Zaryth. "What did you say Iseus came to see you for, again?"

The Dunmer had to stop and think about what her answer was supposed to be. She took a deep breath in. "I was… hoping to lead up to that, as it happens. Iseus didn't come to me simply to talk. He gave me something. It was a whole lot of this."

And with that, she drew a stoppered glass vial from within her robes. It was filled entirely with a viscous, silvery liquid, oozing slowly around a tiny bubble of air running up its side. She might not have been storing it entirely right-side up just now. The potions on her belt were secure in place, but this had been essentially just in a pocket.

"Do either of you recognize this substance?"

The two mages exchanged a brief glance. J'zargo replied hesitantly, "It… looks like some sort of… some variant of quicksilver, no?"

Zaryth shook her head. "The Dragonborn gave me quite a bit of this. He described it as being a form of Aetherial essence."

Aicantar asked, "Isn't that known as Aetherium?"

"Well, considering how generally inconsistent and incomprehensible the reaches of the Aurbis can be, it's not beyond plausibility that this," Zaryth gave the vial a wiggle, "shares the same origin as Aetherium. And functionally, they do share some attributes. My experiments on it so far have demonstrated an immensely powerful magical aura, but I have yet to find a way to use it."

"Iseus could not possibly have left us this material if its purpose were entirely redundant to Aetherium," J'zargo said. "Did he explain its intended use, by chance?"

Zaryth frowned and shook her head again. "No, and I'm not sure he had an intended use in mind. He described it only as a gift that might help us."

J'zargo inclined his head curiously. "If Iseus did not visit you physically, how did he leave you this gift?"

"Well, uh…" That was quite the question. She couldn't help but chuckle a little bit. "I… I suppose you could say he was here and yet not. I can't claim to entirely understand what happened. But I did end up with a bowl full of magic."

"It might be an alchemy reagent," Aicantar offered.

"I don't think so. It's too inert. It's certainly not toxic, but it's not… anything, really. I do find myself wishing Iseus had left some better instructions. This is going to take some time to analyze."

J'zargo said, "If you wish to leave that sample here, this one would gladly begin testing it."

"Yes, that was the idea." Zaryth reached up and placed the vial atop the fireplace's mantelpiece. She didn't want to have to get up and hand it to someone right then. "So, Aicantar. Do you think you have an idea yet of what you'll be doing in Blackreach?"

Aicantar shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "Trying to make J'zargo feel better?"

J'zargo turned and gave him an indignant glare.

Aicantar looked back at J'zargo blankly. "… What? She asked."

Zaryth cleared her throat. "If you're in need of suggestions, I might advise that you assist J'zargo in his research work. It doesn't have to be with this one material sample. The Shadow Unending is about to affect all of Skyrim, and you have the resources of Blackreach at your disposal. This is a good time to use them."

"We will proceed to work," J'zargo said. "Thank you, Zaryth, for coming here."

Zaryth was being thanked for being here. That meant she was expected to stop being here now. Which was fine, since by now, her original goal in coming here was most definitely accomplished. She said some polite parting words and headed back out the door.

The warm, foggy air of Blackreach greeted her. As did the sound of the multitude of nirnroots behind the laboratory. She began walking towards the terminal immediately. That nirnroot noise was terribly irksome after a while.

There was a great deal to think about from this encounter. It was striking, she thought, to have discovered so much similarity between J'zargo and herself. And to think that she had distrusted his initial offer of friendship. No wonder J'zargo had been so eager to approach her. It made so much sense now. He had simply been lonely.

She was going to have to come back here again in the future. Preferably not long from now. Even if she had no further scholarly findings to share, she couldn't simply leave that Khajiit behind. And that was quite a thought. She was realizing that in Iseus' absence, everyone had begun to look to her for their needed scholarly guidance instead.

Really, Iseus had left quite the footsteps in which to follow. It was rare that Zaryth felt particularly humbled by anyone, and all the rarer when it was someone she had seen barely anything of. But whether it was by direct intervention or indirect influence, everything in and around Blackreach seemed to trace back to the things Iseus had done. And now it was Zaryth's turn to do her part here. She wasn't sure what to make of that.

The shuttle was waiting for her at the terminal platform, just where she'd left it. She tried not to climb the stairs to the platform too quickly.

As she reached the top, Zaryth turned back for one last look at the laboratory. There was a huge, red shape in her vision.

A moment passed, just a split second, where she simply didn't understand what she was looking at. But then she realized—it was a nirnroot. The shape was of a crimson nirnroot, so huge that it towered even over the giant glowing mushrooms. It was directly behind the laboratory.

Everything felt like it had stopped. Zaryth didn't understand. Well, she understood, but she didn't understand. This wasn't right at all. This couldn't be happening inside Blackreach. It was supposed to be safe here. The magical incidents were supposed to stay out.

Then something happened. The nirnroot was beginning to flicker. Tiny wisps of bright white energy were flashing over the leaves, through the air, like so many flames. And they were growing, quickly.

Zaryth ran back down the stairs two at a time. She didn't know what this was, but it didn't matter. She was moving.

Ahead of her, the wisps of light were coalescing into a central mass, where the nirnroot's gigantic leaves met above the ground. There was a horrible, deafeningly powerful noise coming from them, audible above the constant ringing, above Zaryth's frantic footsteps. It was like the roar of a massive fire, a hundred times over, coming in bursts of sound with every writhing flash of the wisps of energy.

It was supposed to be safe in here. How had this happened?

Somehow, J'zargo was already out on the street in front of the lab. His body was shimmering white with mage armor, and his hand was carrying a slender ebony sword. He was staring up at the giant nirnroot, his mouth agape.

Zaryth took a breath in. She had to warn him to move, or else—

For a fleeting half-second, the wisps of energy all collapsed into the center of the nirnroot, and the noise stopped. Silence hung in the air. Even the constant ringing of the garden was gone.

Then the nirnroot exploded.

The noise was like a clap of thunder from right inside Zaryth's own head. Her thoughts abandoned her. She couldn't hear, she couldn't see, she couldn't think. An instant later, something hit her hard all across the front, and she fell flat on her back. Instinctively, she cast a healing spell on herself, not even waiting for her senses to catch up, forcing her limbs to pull in, making herself sit up. She had to start seeing again. She had to look at this.

Where the nirnroot had been, there was only a shining, violently rippling orb of white energy, as wide as a person was tall, floating maybe ten feet in the air. It was making a strange noise, like it was burning, but without any fuel. The garden below had been reduced to burnt gray ash.

Zaryth was off to the lab's right side, just a short distance down the road. It put her in the perfect place to watch as J'zargo emerged from behind the lab's left wall, out into the garden space, with his sword up on guard. Her limbs weren't letting her stand up.

As she watched, the orb filled up suddenly with a blossoming inner light. Then the light gathered in on itself and took a distinct form, all in a span of perhaps a second—and then a spectral being was floating down to the ground below. Pale blue, fading to transparency, letting off a bluish mist. A ghost.

Even from here, she recognized the ghost's appearance. It was dressed in ornate layered robes, ankle-length, with prominently flared shoulders. Upon its head was a banded, pointed hat. It carried in its hand a plain, straight-bladed sword. But what made it so recognizable was its beard. It was full, long, and just as ornately decorated as the robes below. She would have recognized that anywhere.

The ghost was that of a Dwemer. Blackreach was being visited by the ghost of one of its former owners.

The very moment that the ghost had alighted upon the ground, it charged straight at J'zargo with its sword held high. The Khajiit responded with a lightning bolt spell that struck it squarely in the chest, and then lunged in with his own blade coming up. But the ghost managed to block his strike, and the two of them became embroiled in a vicious melee.

As they did, the orb above them brightened again, and another ghost floated free. A second Dwemer ghost, armed and outfitted just like the first. Zaryth realized that there was no definite limit to how many enemies they would be facing. A correction to her previous thought: Blackreach was being invaded—not merely visited, but invaded—by, quite probably, _many_ ghosts of its former owners.

This was new. This was very new. It was true that Zaryth had been around plenty of enemies before, but for the longest time, the only thing she'd had to defend was herself. She wanted to turn invisible right then. To turn invisible, muffle herself, and flee the battlefield so she could live another day. That would've felt like the wisest tactic, once. But she was in Blackreach now. She had to defend this place. If she fled, the ghosts would only turn on everyone else in the Alftand outpost, and maybe beyond.

Fortunately, illusion wasn't the only school she knew. As she shakily rose to her feet, she raised both hands before her, and lit them up with the aura of conjuration. This spell would take nearly all of her magicka, but once it was complete… these ghosts wouldn't know what had hit them. She might not have been ready to fight this battle herself, but she could summon somebody who was. Somebody who would feast on these poor ghostly creatures' little ethereal hearts.

She cast the spell right at the ground in front of her. A purple, swirling orb appeared on the spot … and then collapsed in a sad little crackle of expired magicka.

Right. Iseus had killed all the Dremora. That was annoying.

J'zargo had just put his sword through the first ghost's chest. The ghost disintegrated from around his blade, just in time for the second to throw an ice spike straight at his head, then another at his middle. He responded by letting himself drop backwards onto the ground, and for a moment, Zaryth thought he was leaving himself helpless—until he tucked his legs in and sprang back to his feet with his sword still in hand.

Zaryth frowned. That wasn't very mage-like of him. They had wards for this sort of thing.

Not that she could talk. She was still waiting for her magicka to replenish.

Behind her, voices were calling out. She turned to see an assortment of people standing in the street, perhaps a couple dozen, staring in some mix of blankness and horror at the unfolding spectacle. J'zargo's assistants. They'd just been coming out of the buildings.

They had to get out of here. But even if they did, there was no guarantee this ghost-generating orb would simply exhaust itself. And as nimble as J'zargo seemed to be, he and Zaryth would not last forever against these things. Zaryth thought quickly.

She called out to the onlookers, "Get up to Alftand, and call Savos Aren! We need him!"

Thankfully, they didn't need to be told twice. They all hurried past towards the Alftand exit in short order.

By the time Zaryth turned back to the orb, a third ghost had already emerged. The first had come out not twenty seconds ago. This orb was proving to be worryingly productive. She had to think her plan through.

It would take about five minutes for the Alftand lift to make its ascent. From there, it might take, charitably, one or two more minutes for the Arch-Mage to answer a call for help. If this orb was releasing a ghost every ten seconds, they would have to fight at least thirty in the meantime. And that was if the rate stayed constant. Zaryth wasn't counting on her luck today.

If she and J'zargo were overwhelmed by this attack, there was no definite limit to what these ghosts would do. How many of them would end up appearing, how far they could travel, how quickly they could do it—these were all unknown. But there was the very real possibility that a failure to contain this orb here and now would result in an invasion too massive even for the Black Machine to stop. And Zaryth was still not counting on her luck.

It could have been, at that moment, that she and J'zargo were Blackreach's only line of defense.

What was she going to do?

J'zargo was doing a remarkable job of holding his own. There were two ghosts slinging spells at him, and he was simply not letting them hit. More spikes came his way, and he ducked and twisted and jumped out of the way. A couple times, he elected to simply raise a ward for a second or so, and let the incoming spike break apart against the shimmering field.

But he couldn't do that forever. Zaryth had to help. And her magicka had returned enough to let her act. She readied a silence spell in either hand, and threw the red bolts of energy one after another at the two ghosts.

Both bolts hit their marks. The ice spikes stopped right away. That was the function of the silence spell—it would temporarily suppress these ghosts' ability to cast spells. They would simply have to take J'zargo on some other way.

And that was exactly what they did. Both of them closed in on him at once, swords readied to strike. But J'zargo didn't wait for them to converge. He ran straight at the ghost to his right, sword up above his head for a huge vertical chop. The ghost saw it coming, and readied a low, upward thrust, to come up beneath his attack—and as they met, J'zargo's left hand shot out and grabbed the ghost by the incoming wrist. The spectral sword went harmlessly past his side.

At the same moment, he made a counterattack of his own. But not with the sword. He still had it high above his head, but it didn't strike first. His elbow did. It came right down and slammed into the ghost's bearded face. _Then_ he struck with his sword. The ghost disintegrated with the blade halfway through its neck.

At that point, the left-side ghost was right on top of him. It was preparing a sideways swing, to hit him in his exposed left arm. The Khajiit responded by bringing his empty hand up, and activating a ward spell for just a split second. With a booming, resonating clang, the ghost's weapon bounced off just as forcibly as it'd come in. And by the time the ghost was ready to strike again, there was a sword through its chest.

Could ward spells even do that? Clearly, they could, because J'zargo had just done it. Zaryth was struggling to keep up with this. She'd never gotten far with non-spell combat. It had always felt so foreign. But here J'zargo was, seamlessly blending spells and swordplay. If they both survived this, Zaryth was going to have to ask him to share his technique.

Another ghost appeared through the orb. To the Dunmer's surprise, the very instant it did, it threw an ice spike straight at her. Thankfully, these projectiles were slow-moving enough that she was able to put up a ward just in time. A lightning bolt would have been much harder to deal with.

J'zargo shouted to her, "We need to get rid of this thing!"

It was true, they did need to. But Zaryth had no idea of how. She wasn't even sure how this spectral disaster had gotten past all the Aetherium ore. Presumably, it was something to do with the cluster of nirnroots—perhaps they had built a sufficiently concentrated path to Aetherius to overcome Blackreach's protection?—but this gave her no insight for how to shut it down.

Really, it was remarkable enough that the incident had occurred during the brief time of her visit here. She almost wondered if her arrival had been what triggered the incident, somehow.

Her thoughts were interrupted by another ice spike. This time, she was unable to raise a ward in time. The spike hit her in the left shoulder—gods, she'd forgotten to put on her mage armor! The pain shot through her whole arm and chest, freezing and stinging and clawing all at once, and she fell down to one knee, grunting under her breath.

But it wasn't enough to put her out of this fight. Her magicka was still very usable. She cast a healing spell with her unaffected arm, then put on a layer of mage armor immediately afterward, as she stood back up and reassessed the situation.

Out in the garden, J'zargo had just renewed his own mage armor as well, and it looked like he'd need it. There were two ghosts on the ground, and a third coming down from above. J'zargo charged at the nearest one with a driving strike, only for his weapon to be blocked by the ghost's own. Their blades promptly locked together, both just inches away from their targets. But before that could go any further, J'zargo started pouring a stream of shock magic into his opponent's sword hand. It only took a second or so. He simply used the momentary weakness to maneuver his sword up and across the ghost's bearded neck. A swift, decisive kill.

Something wasn't right. Zaryth had lost track of something. She couldn't see the second ghost. For a moment, she was wondering if it'd gone someplace entirely different, and then something icy crashed and burst against J'zargo's back.

The Khajiit cried out and stumbled forwards. That had been an ice spike, all right. The ghost was standing right there behind him. Rather than land on all fours, though, he tucked his head in and rolled over the burnt ground, coming back to his feet with his sword up and ready.

That meant he was on the ground for a good second or so. Zaryth used the opportunity to hurl a lightning bolt of her own straight over J'zargo's head. It wasn't quite ideal—she was no master of destruction magic—but it was the only ranged spell of hers with an instant travel time, and she didn't want her fellow mage to get hit. In any case, it clearly wasn't a problem, because the bolt struck the ghost directly in the chest, and sent it staggering back long enough for J'zargo to get up safely.

Unfortunately, in that time, another ghost had emerged from the orb. Zaryth realized she'd lost track of the one before it, as well. She didn't know where they were going. As J'zargo turned back and closed in to finish off his weakened attacker, Zaryth stepped back and looked around the streets.

She didn't have to look far for her answer. The ghosts were landing on the roof of the laboratory, and jumping down onto the street. Heading up towards the platform just opposite it.

The ghosts were going to attack Alftand. This was even worse than before.

To be honest, Zaryth wasn't sure how quickly these beings could get to the top of the shaft. But if they could do it faster than the lift, they could slaughter everyone in the cathedral, and prevent the guards from calling Savos for help. And Zaryth, once again, was not counting on her luck.

She called out to J'zargo, "They're going for Alftand! Stop them!"

But she didn't wait for him to catch up. The ghosts were heading up the platform at that very moment. Two were ascending the stairs, and a third was hopping down from the laboratory roof.

Zaryth broke into a sprint for the platform, and as she did, she threw a paralysis spell at the first ghost in line. The pale green bolt hit its mark, and the ghost collapsed onto its front.

She rather adored the variety of targets upon which paralysis could work. At that moment, she hadn't been sure if it even would, with these ghosts being what they were. But while part of her mind wanted to delve into some tangent comparing paralysis spells against equivalent alchemical poisons, the rest of her mind observed that this was not the best time for spell analysis. The second ghost was still climbing the stairs, and she was running low on magicka.

A black-and-gray blur shot across Zaryth's field of vision. It was J'zargo. He was going straight for the platform, right at the vertical edge, completely ignoring the stairs up its side. When he got to the far side of the paved street, he flung his sword up onto the platform, then jumped up and grabbed the edge with both hands. Without even slowing down, he pulled himself up the rest of the way, and righted himself amid the magelight of the platform's top. He picked his sword up just in time to meet the non-paralyzed ghost in melee.

Then an ice spike flew in from across the road and just barely missed J'zargo's head. Zaryth glanced at its source, and was met with a deeply troubling sight.

The orb was generating ghosts much more quickly than before. She could tell that even at a glance. Right then, there were three more ghosts climbing over the roof of the laboratory, and two in the street before her. Thankfully, they weren't paying her any attention, but that was because they were all trying to kill J'zargo. More ice spikes were coming in. The paralyzed ghost remained where it lay on the stairs, but that was one of many. This wouldn't last.

Fortunately, Zaryth was equipped with potions. She strode out into the path of the ghosts, and as she did, she pulled a slender blue bottle from her belt, pulled the stopper with her teeth, and downed its entire contents in one swallow. The fluid inside was fiery and full of energy. This was the energy she needed.

She let the bottle fall through her fingers to the ground. The ghosts turned on her just as the spell aura began to charge in her hands.

The nearest few ghosts were approaching her with swords raised. It didn't matter. It was too late for them.

The spell discharged in a gigantic, radiant wave of pale green energy, sweeping outwards through the air, over the ground, into the ghosts in every direction. They instantly went rigid and collapsed, motionless but for the ethereal mist swirling about their bodies. The mass paralysis spell was a costly, difficult one, but it worked. Now she had a few seconds in which to act.

Immediately, she readied a spell to conjure a bound weapon. These were still functional—she knew this for a fact, since she'd used a bound battle-axe outside Saarthal, well after the date of the Oblivion Purge. She had enough magicka remaining for a sword, at least.

Just as she was about to bring the spectral weapon into existence, a lightning bolt snapped through the air over her head. That had to be J'zargo, targeting more ghosts coming from the orb. It mattered not. She had to finish these ones while they were down.

"Zaryth!" The Khajiit's voice called out. "Come up here! You are too exposed!"

So she _wasn't_ supposed to finish these ones, then? That didn't make sense to her. But still, maybe her fellow mage had some sort of plan. She dismissed the spell and ran for the stairway to the platform. As she did, a couple more ice spikes crashed into the wall beside her. She forced herself to ignore them, and kept moving up.

Atop the platform, J'zargo was standing with his sword at the ready. There were no ghosts around him. His hands were trembling a little bit, and it was making his whole blade move around. Zaryth realized that he was actually panting. This must have been demanding a great deal from him.

He pointed with his sword at the doors to the corridor. "In there. We will bottleneck them. Their numbers will mean less."

That didn't sound very promising. Zaryth had expected more from his plan. That doorway was far from narrow. "Just the two of us?—"

J'zargo's eyes widened fiercely, and he suddenly shoved Zaryth back, hard, by the shoulders. Nearly the very same instant, an ice spike shot past her face, so close by that she actually felt the rush of cold air. It shattered audibly against a wall somewhere, but she wasn't looking.

That spike would have gone straight into the side of her head. J'zargo had just saved her life. What was she even supposed to think right now?

She was being dragged by the wrist, pulled forcibly towards the Alftand doorway. This was where they were supposed to go. She willed herself to cooperate, and move up alongside the Khajiit mage, before the ghosts could close in any more.

The doors to the corridor beyond were wide open. Once they were through, Zaryth and J'zargo pulled the doors closed without a word. The latch engaged with a heavy metallic click.

It was quiet in here. All Zaryth could hear was her own racing heartbeat, throbbing in her temples, making her feel faint. This was becoming too much to handle. Blackreach was being invaded by ghosts. She didn't understand how J'zargo was still thinking so clearly. She could hardly think at all.

All of those ghosts were still coming for them. There must have been a score of them out there by now. And it had only been a few minutes. That wasn't long enough.

She asked in a hushed voice, "What now?"

J'zargo responded by readying a frost spell, and sealing the door latch with a jet of crystallizing ice. In air as warm as this, the ice wouldn't last terribly long, but perhaps it didn't have to. When the Khajiit was done, he replied, "Now, we pray that this is enough. And we plan that it is not."

With that, he took a few steps back from the door, and readied his sword once again. Zaryth walked slowly over to his side, and watched the doors before them. There was a vertical line of haphazard ice growths down the middle, focused on the point where the doors latched together. Zaryth couldn't stop staring at it. She had no idea what was on the other side.

A brief time went by in tense silence. At least her magicka was replenishing.

Eventually, she asked, "What are we going to do?"

The noise came suddenly. Zaryth would have recognized it from a mile away, but it wasn't even a stone's throw beyond the doors. It was a huge, earth-shaking thud. And then another thud not a second after it. And another, and another…

There was only one thing this could have been. It was impossible, but there the noise was. She'd heard it so many times before. The wise thing to do now would be to run.

The lift to Alftand was gone from behind them, the barred doors closed tight. There was nowhere to run to.

The noise was getting louder with every moment. It was coming.

J'zargo took a deep breath in, then sighed and shook his head. "If you have any more tricks up your sleeve, now is the time to use them."

"Well, uh…" That wasn't very reassuring at all. Zaryth joined him in taking some more deep breaths. She didn't want to die in here.

That thought hit her like a knife in the chest. Not an exaggeration—it felt that physically painful and wrenching. She gasped involuntarily. This could be the actual place of her death. She might never leave this corridor.

Why had she been worrying about what she would do without Thorald? She was on the verge of leaving Thorald to live without her. And he'd never even said if anything was making him happy yet.

A warm hand gripped firmly on her shoulder. She focused enough to see J'zargo looking into her eyes.

"Zaryth," he said. His voice was so low and soft, it was nearly a whisper. "Stay with J'zargo. You are needed."

"I… I don't…"

"It is no more than a particularly exciting puzzle. Now solve it."

Solve it.

It sounded so simple when he put it that way. Maybe it really was.

Zaryth nodded silently, and took one more deep breath in.

Nearly every time she'd come near one of these things, it had already been inactive. Sometimes, it had even been halfway dismantled before she'd gotten to it. She'd never quite thought about how to fight something of this size and strength. But she remembered what she'd seen.

That would be enough, she thought. And, as J'zargo seemed to like to plan, if it wasn't enough… if it wasn't enough for them, then maybe at least it would be enough for Alftand. For everyone else.

She readied a spell in one hand. A simple spell, with herself as the target. And as she did, she told J'zargo what she planned to do. His cooperation would be needed for this.

The thudding was almost right outside the doors. Zaryth had little time to prepare.

She used her time wisely.

It came suddenly, in one instant. A huge, reverberating crash, nearly as loud as the concussive explosion of the giant nirnroot. The metal of the doors dented and bulged grotesquely outward in the middle. J'zargo's seal of ice burst apart instantly. The doors swung open from the lingering impact, and in stepped their new enemy.

Zaryth had never seen an ethereal centurion before. It was just as huge and armored and expressionless as one made of real metal. Its left arm ended with an axe, its right with a hammer. But its entire body was misty blue instead of gold. Its elbows and collar were letting off the ghostly version of plumes of steam, the latter through three dedicated vent slits by either shoulder.

It scanned the way down the corridor, detected J'zargo at the far end, and began to move forward. It never saw Zaryth coming.

All it had taken was a simple levitation spell, and she'd perched herself right on top of the wide stone doorframe, between it and the ceiling. She watched the centurion walk out into the corridor beneath her, and when it had gotten all the way inside, she jumped.

Dwemer centurions were rather like people in shape, but they didn't really have necks. Their heads and torsos were the same fixed mass of vaguely cylindrical metal, widest at the shoulders, with narrow waists below, and a rounded, cone-like top above. Perfectly smooth and seamlessly armored, except for a barred strut running along the top and down the back of its head-segment, like a helmet's crest. Zaryth grabbed onto that strut with both hands. It was strangely warm to the touch. Then the rest of her landed against the automaton, and things promptly went mad.

Her knees had landed against the base of the centurion's head-segment, just above its widest point. She was very firmly secured here. But the automaton immediately tried starting to shake her off. Fortunately, its arms' range of motion was too limited to reach her. It raised its arm-mounted weapons towards her, and they stopped a fair few feet short.

The Dunmer let go with one hand, and reached to her belt. This had to be quick. The centurion was staggering and flailing at random, wrenching this way and that against her weight. If her other hand lost its grip, that would be the end of it.

On her belt was J'zargo's sword. She drew it in a reverse grip, reached over the centurion's shoulder, and jammed the blade into the highest of the three vent slits. Instantly, her hand was bathed in a scalding jet of steam. She grimaced, ignored it, and forced the blade in deeper. It had to get past the opening vents. It had to.

Her eyes were watering profusely. Her hand hurt more than anything ever had. And the centurion just kept thrashing around beneath her this whole time. Her other hand was slick with sweat. It couldn't hold onto this strut forever. She ignored everything and forced the blade in deeper, through inner layers of metal, until it had carved the gap it needed to.

Strictly speaking, this centurion didn't need its steam in order to function. Automatons, ultimately, ran on magical force alone. The steam was just there to bolster its strength, and function as a ranged weapon. So rupturing these steam conduits wasn't enough. She wrenched J'zargo's sword back out, flung it aside, and prepared another spell.

At that moment, the ghostly centurion stumbled backwards against the wall. Zaryth felt the stone surface collide with her back. It very nearly knocked her straight over this thing's head. But her grip stayed firm, just long enough for her to put this one last spell to use.

The spell was a lightning bolt. She put her scalded hand to the widened hole in the steam vent, and sent it snapping into the centurion's insides. It went straight through the gap created by the ebony sword's incisive force, and struck directly against the centurion's control assembly, where its soul gem was housed.

This had the same effect against all automatons everywhere. The fact that this automaton was a ghost made no difference. It was as sure as a sword strike to one of the Dwemer ghosts' unliving hearts.

She jumped off the automaton as it crashed to the ground behind her. Immediately afterward, she cast a healing spell on herself with her uninjured hand. All of that burning pain faded away instantly.

The doors to Blackreach were still wide open. An army of Dwemer ghosts was standing there and looking at her.

"Go away," she grumbled, and swung the doors closed again.

They didn't exactly latch shut, seeing as the latch had been completely ruined just now, but it served to block the flurry of ice spikes that followed. Zaryth held them closed with one arm, and turned back to look at J'zargo. "How about that bottleneck, then?"

"Why not," the Khajiit said. He had his sword in his hand again. He walked up to the other side of the doors from Zaryth, just opposite the big protruding dent, and renewed his mage armor spell. "It should be fun enough."

That was a good reminder, actually. Zaryth did the same spell for herself. She was rather low on magicka now, but this was J'zargo's moment. All he had to do was hold the line.

When the ghosts reached the doors, they forced their way through by sheer numbers alone. Zaryth backed away quickly, and J'zargo gave his sword a flourish as the crowd met him. All things considered, he could have been much more afraid.

He met the first ghost with a casual, sweeping strike of the sword, cutting its legs out from under it. Then the rest descended on him, and he put up a ward with his free hand. They crashed against it like a wave, and began to edge around to outflank him. But his sword hand was free, and he just kept attacking, all the while.

Sword strikes were biting into him from half a dozen different angles at once, but he didn't seem to even care. They mustn't have been getting through his mage armor enough to really hurt him. His counterattacks, however, were far more deadly. Whenever he struck a ghost, it fell immediately after. He was so fast, moving seamlessly from one killing blow to the next. It was rather terrifying to watch. But it would only last as long as his magicka held out. Probably just a few seconds, and then the ghosts would overwhelm him.

Zaryth didn't have enough magicka left for another mass paralysis spell. This might have counted as another puzzle. She wasn't sure she had the time to think its solution through.

At that moment, a purple, swirling aura appeared in the middle of the air outside, just in front of the laboratory. Zaryth watched silently. There was really only one thing this could be.

Floating there, ten feet or so above the ground, was the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, Savos Aren. He took a brief look around, and raised a single hand. An orange aura appeared in it.

The ghosts tore apart all at once. Their bodies simply ruptured and came apart from within, into a dozen different pieces each. Behind Zaryth, the centurion's inner machinery exploded out into the air. A moment later, it all disintegrated into nothing. The battlefield was empty.

Zaryth and J'zargo walked out slowly, the latter casting a healing spell upon himself on the way. Savos Aren was still floating there, but his attention was on the orb now. Every time something came out of it, he gave it the same treatment.

"Arch-Mage," Zaryth called out from the platform. "What is this?"

Savos glanced over his shoulder with an empty-handed shrug. He was still floating some ten feet above the ground, about as high up as the orb itself. "Whatever it is, I'm very eager to do away with it!" He had such a smooth, refined voice. It felt like quite the contrast right then. A moment later, he glanced back again, his eyebrows raised. "That's some beautiful armor, J'zargo."

"Finally," J'zargo grinned. He hopped down to the ground below, and started walking out onto the street. "Hold on. Khajiit has just had an idea for how to handle this."

With that, he walked up to the laboratory, put his palm to the life-sensor plate, and entered through the doors. Two seconds later, he walked back out with a very familiar glass vial in hand.

Another centurion was coming through the orb. For a moment, Zaryth felt a twinge of worry, but then its components burst apart and went spinning away in a hundred different directions. Savos ignored it and looked down at J'zargo. "What is that?"

"A gift from Iseus," J'zargo said, holding up the vial for the Arch-Mage to see. "See for yourself."

Rather than try to reach down for it, Savos simply used his telekinesis to lift the vial out of J'zargo's grasp, and bring it up in front of his face. Without laying so much as a finger on any of it, he twisted the stopper free, and poured the vial's silvery contents out into a liquid globe in the air, leaving the vial and stopper floating at either side.

"Interesting," he said, giving the globe a gentle, rippling spin. He had yet to physically touch anything in this place.

Zaryth asked, "What are you going to do with it?"

"Probably this." And with that, Savos sent the ball of silvery fluid flying outward through the air, over the laboratory's roof—and right into the center of the orb.

It was surprising, how suddenly it happened. It was as though the source of magic keeping the orb active had simply ceased to be. The orb's inner light faded to nothing without a sound, and then its rippling shell melted apart and vanished. Both it and the silvery essence were completely gone from view.

Savos put the stopper back in the vial again, then took hold of it, dropped down to ground level, and handed it back to J'zargo. He didn't even seem particularly affected by it all.

Zaryth hurried around down the staircase. She had very little idea of what just happened, but it felt extremely significant. It simply wasn't quite clear how.

When she arrived, Savos nodded to her and said, "It's a pleasure to see you again, Zaryth." Then, to J'zargo, "You as well. I wish I could have come here under happier circumstances."

"You are always welcome," J'zargo smiled. "We have much to discuss, do we not? Khajiit believed that the Shadow Unending would remain outside Blackreach."

Zaryth said, "I think that was your nirnroot garden, J'zargo. Too many of them in one place. I'm not sure how exactly this works, but there seems to be a connection between the nirnroots and Aetherius."

"Those nirnroots took much work to cultivate," J'zargo said sourly. "They were increasing the power of all nearby magic by nearly double. It is lucky that many potions have been stockpiled. We should not replant the nirnroots until this Shadow Unending has finally found its end after all."

"If it ever does," Zaryth muttered.

Savos nodded to J'zargo. "I am, indeed, familiar with the nirnroot's relationship with nearby magic," he said, rather amiably. "My current theory is that there is a connection—as you said a moment ago, Zaryth—but it is within each nirnroot. They seem to each contain a connecting point between our world and Aetherius. Or, given their propensity as of late to grow uncontrollably at random, a connecting point between Aetherius and our world."

It was strange to think that not two minutes ago, Zaryth and J'zargo had been desperately fighting for their lives, and now they were standing and chatting with the Arch-Mage as though nothing had happened. But something most definitely had. Zaryth was still feeling very shaky from all of this. She could have died today, if things had gone just slightly less in her favor. But they hadn't, and she had survived, and that was worth a great deal.

She had to admit, she was feeling quite impressed by J'zargo at the moment. It was more than the swordplay and the surprisingly useful armor. The Khajiit had handled himself this entire time with incredible poise and proficiency. Seeing him in action, Zaryth had been reminded of Echallos' words about what kept warriors like himself going, despite such inescapable risk to their own lives. In a word: bravery.

Bravery was very difficult. Zaryth herself had just brought down a Dwemer centurion in what amounted to single combat, and she felt nothing about it but terror. Even in hindsight, all she could think of was how close she'd come to losing her life. And this was what warriors dealt with all the time.

When she was done here, she was going to have to go back to the Silent City and report this incident in detail. Then, after that was done, she would have to find Thorald and spend a long time hugging him.

"We have a great deal of work ahead of us," she said. "I have only a limited supply of the substance you made use of just now, Savos. The Dragonborn left it here personally, and… he's not around very much these days."

Savos nodded appreciatively. "If you can spare some more samples, I'd be glad to take one back to Winterhold for study there. I'll be happy to share my results, of course. Most of my time recently has been spent on experimentation and development, but the Shadow Unending clearly already demands direct intervention." He gestured to the spot in the air where the orb had been a minute ago. "We will need to work quickly."

Just then, the doors of the laboratory swung slowly open. All three mages stopped and looked on silently.

It was Aicantar. He stepped out into the street, and looked around slowly. "Is… is it over?"

Zaryth said, "Wait. Were you in there this entire time?"

"Uhh… yes, there was a lot of noise outside, so, uh…" Aicantar waved his hand in a vague gesticulation, before noticing Savos standing beside him. He smiled politely. "Hello, Arch-Mage. What are you doing down here, exactly?"


	38. Gelebor 8

Sundas, 10:22 AM, 45th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Whiterun

The trip here had been along the western bank of Riverwood's flowing namesake, known in general as the White River. Vidrald and Sorine had departed south to find their own answers, while Teldryn and Gelebor had proceeded north for some direly needed communication.

An agent of the Mythic Dawn had fallen out of the sky. The implications, in brief, were that the limits of time and space were beginning to unravel before their very eyes. It would have been worth reporting even _without_ the stolen Aetherium to bring up.

They first saw the city of Whiterun on the brightly starlit morning of the 45th. Far out in the open plains, the river curved around the eastern side of a lone, massive hill—though the hill itself was not immediately apparent. It was covered completely in a multitude of dark gray-green rooftops, and surrounded by a low stone wall. At its peak stood a great city keep, a lone spire against the distant horizon.

The city of Whiterun. The quintessential Nordic city. It was a beautiful sight.

Gelebor had never before been to this part of Skyrim. Supposedly, the hill upon which Whiterun stood had once been feared and avoided by his people, and the ancient Nords—or Atmorans, as they had been called—had settled here simply to be contrary. He imagined how the hill might have looked, once, at a time when it would have been bare of all these buildings. The image struck him as seeming terribly empty.

"Now, remember," Teldryn said to him as they came down the road, "keep your hood up and your head down, and we'll get to the keep in short order. All we need to do is deliver our message."

"Yes, I am well aware of our precautions," the snow elf sighed. Neither of them had brought any Aetherium with them—for security's sake, they were avoiding bringing it into the major cities—but the fact remained that it was far too easy for him to end up drawing attention to himself.

His companion said thoughtfully, "Perhaps when we get there, I should buy some stationery and write them a letter. I'm sure it's possible to send letters through a teleportation network. Via couriers, at the least."

"It would be quicker than the previous round of letters, I imagine." Gelebor wasn't sure of the exact dates, but after sending the letters from Rorikstead, they'd had time to detour all the way to Arkngthamz before meeting Sorine Jurard in Riverwood. If all letters continued to take that long to send back and forth, chances were that the world itself would end sooner than their intended conversations.

For his part, Teldryn simply sounded amused. "That is a good point, isn't it? The wonderful utility of world-bending magic. Send your letters more quickly." He paused briefly, then added, "That would be quite the opportunity for Blackreach to make some extra gold. It might put quite a few couriers out of work, though."

"Well, I won't assert a deep understanding of such things," Gelebor shrugged. "But I would note that teleportation is not something to use lightly. Before I joined you and Vidrald, I had been guarding the wayshrine in Darkfall Cave. The wayshrines were, in essence, a series of magical chambers through our Vale, all interlinked, all containing doors to one another. They were used as part of our spiritual journey as much as our physical one. I find it difficult to imagine using magic of such grace and might for something as trivial as courier delivery."

"I suppose you didn't get many couriers to your Chantry," the Dunmer said dryly.

"No, indeed not. For that matter, we didn't talk to one another nearly as much to begin with. My travels with you and Vidrald have been host to some of the most protracted and engaged conversation of my life." And that was a strange thing to admit, but it was true. A great many things had changed in Gelebor's life as of late. By the time this business of the Shadow Unending was done with, he suspected, many things would have changed even further.

"You must have had someone you were close to there. Besides Auri-El, I mean."

Gelebor had to hold back a smile. He had been entirely planning on citing Auri-El as his closest one. But even now, it took him no time to come up with an answer. It was rather obvious. "Yes, indeed. Strictly speaking, I suppose, there was my brother, the Arch-Curate Vyrthur, but… well, I call myself the last surviving snow elf for a reason."

Teldryn made a dismayed sound. "Ahhh. The Betrayed killed him, then?"

"Not quite. He was the last survivor of the Chantry, besides myself, but he never managed to escape the Betrayed. I believed him to have been corrupted to their ranks. But then it was rendered moot when the Chantry was attacked by a pair of dragons. My brother… did not survive."

"That's a pity," the Dunmer said quietly. "I might have liked to meet him someday. You're certainly wonderful company yourself, you know."

This wasn't helping with Gelebor's efforts not to smile. "Not all snow elves are equal company. Or… were, I suppose." Well, that thought dampened his mirth well enough. He sighed and shook his head. "One unfortunate by-product of being the only remaining member of my race is that I'm the only one to care about it."

Teldryn looked at him silently.

After a moment, he added, "I'm happy to distance myself from that now. It would be easier if we weren't visiting the home of the Companions today."

The Dunmer winced. He offered half-heartedly, "They're… not what they were?"

"I do imagine that Ysgramor's band of snow elf killers would have to find a new purpose, having run out of snow elves."

"In fairness, they also ran out of Ysgramor."

"You never know. I might reignite their ancestral urges if they see me." Gelebor made a chopping gesture with an imaginary battle-axe. "Nngh! Off with the pointy-ear's head."

"Well, bear in mind, Gelebor, that the Nords yearn for an honorable death in battle. If they try to take your head, I'll give them their wish." Teldryn smiled good-naturedly. "But I don't anticipate any such trouble. Head down, hood up, right to the keep, we'll be quite fine."

Gelebor sighed once more. "If you say so. Perhaps someday I should disguise myself as another type of elf, so I can enjoy the cities of Skyrim in peace."

But to his surprise, Teldryn shook his head. "Do try not to lose touch of who you are, Gelebor. Even if no one else knows or cares. You're not truly forgotten until you've forgotten yourself."

With those words, the two of them proceeded the rest of the way to the city. It was a quiet, peaceful walk. They passed by a few guards on patrol without incident, and eventually came up around the city's stables. And those were new to Gelebor's eyes, if not his nose. Seeing all the horses in rows of pens, in a common dedicated stable, was quite a novel sight. Normally, the horses were all over the place. In this case, he could at least get away from it by being outdoors.

The city gates were located beyond a brief switchback ending with a short drawbridge. They were currently open, so Teldryn and Gelebor entered without a word. None of the guards stopped them. Apparently, a Dunmer in Dawnguard armor and a pale elf in robes weren't uncommon enough a sight to justify scrutiny.

Whiterun was even more striking from inside. Visually, it was rather less of a spectacle—he could see only a few streets around him, with a small handful of buildings—but up close, he could appreciate all the more the immense work that had gone into this place. People were walking all over the streets, going about their daily business, contributing to what the city of Whiterun _was._ The bustle was plainly audible in the air. It made Gelebor feel alive just to be nearby.

Even from here, though, he could see the high roof of Dragonsreach. That was their destination. Somehow, it felt just as distant now as when it had been a little narrow shape against the horizon. It was simply above them all.

Teldryn seemed to know the way around Whiterun, so he moved in front of Gelebor and began wordlessly leading him ahead. They walked over flagstone streets and up long staircases, past all manner of buildings, past channels of running water, through an endless stream of passersby. No one paid them any mind, even now. It was interesting how little attention the two of them were garnering. But it made sense, perhaps. Everyone was busy living their own lives. To them, Teldryn and Gelebor were nameless shapes in the crowd.

In the end, the walk turned out to not be nearly as long as Gelebor had expected. They reached a spacious circular open area, centered on a massive pink-leaved tree, and the keep of Dragonsreach was right above them. All that remained was one last winding staircase over some last canals and moats. Now, finally, Dragonsreach felt like it was nearby.

On the way up, Gelebor noticed a large boulder violently embedded in the stone nearby the staircase's base. He decided it best not to ask.

"Well, there's Jorrvaskr," Teldryn said, as they ascended the first flight. He was pointing to a building off to their right, up another, straighter staircase. It was a sizable structure, with a particularly odd construction—the roof looked rather similar to an overturned ship's hull.

Which made perfect sense, since that was what it had been likely made from. Gelebor felt an unpleasant shiver run through him. He was seeing something he had lived in fear of for longer than he knew.

Then he looked beside it, and saw what was unmistakably the legendary Skyforge. It was on its own platform overlooking Jorrvaskr, at the top of a curving staircase. There was indeed a forge there, and a very large one at that—being worked on by some white-haired Nord at that very moment—but the main feature of note was the statue directly above the glowing coals. It was an absolutely massive figure of an ancient bird, its wings spread just enough to embrace the forge beneath in their arching span. That one statue had been there for longer than anything else in the entire city.

There came the shiver again. Gelebor averted his eyes and continued up the staircase without a word. He didn't know what to think of all that, at the moment. He only knew that it was perturbing him. And they did still have a job to do.

The doors to Dragonsreach were across one last wooden bridge over a deep moat of water. Teldryn led the way across and opened the doors with as much solemnity as a mercenary could muster. Gelebor closed his eyes and lowered his head as he followed his companion inside.

Warm, faintly wood-scented air surrounded him. He opened his eyes again to find what seemed like a Nordic inn's grandest extreme. It was a huge, open hall, with pillars along the sides and a vaulted roof above, shining with sunlight through the rafters. Gelebor was reminded of some parts of the Chantry. But in this case, instead of immaculately shaped stone, nearly all of the hall's interior was made of wood. The floor was split into two levels, one front and one back, the latter of which contained the room's main contents. Gelebor saw two long tables, side by side around a central hearth, running up to a throne at the far wall. A dragon's skull was mounted above it.

The tables were occupied by a few assorted residents, and seated at the throne was a bearded man in ornate robes. Teldryn pointed up to the man, and murmured to Gelebor, "That's the Jarl. We had best seek his audience. Lower your hood."

As they walked up the stairs to the higher level, Gelebor did just that. And the moment he did, seemingly everyone in the room stopped and stared at him. That hadn't taken long at all. They traversed the rest of the way in a strange sort of silence. The loudest thing in the room right then was the crackle of the hearth.

It was seldom a good sign when the main sound in a room was that of fire. Gelebor sighed and proceeded as normal.

The man at the throne, the Jarl of Whiterun, was an older man, strong in build, with long light hair and a pronounced beard. His robes of office had a white fur collar, but were sleeveless beyond some padding on the shoulders, which bared his muscular arms for view. That was rather incredible. These robes were possibly the single most Nordic thing that Gelebor had seen in his life.

Beside him stood a Dunmer, female, wearing heavy armor from the neck down. She very visibly laid a hand on the hilt of her sword as Teldryn and Gelebor approached. The Jarl's bodyguard, then. That made sense enough.

At the same time, the Jarl sat up in his seat. "Greetings," he said, warily, to the two travelers. His age was audible in his voice, though not for the worse. "What brings you to Dragonsreach?"

Teldryn bowed his head and said, "Jarl Balgruuf, it's an honor to meet you." He flicked his hair back rather gracefully as he looked up again. "I am Teldryn Sero. This," he gestured to Gelebor, "is Knight-Paladin Gelebor, servant of Akatosh and the last surviving snow elf. We're here to contact Blackreach."

Gelebor resisted the urge to frown. That was not how he referred to his deity.

Still, it seemed to capture Jarl Balgruuf's attention thoroughly enough. "A snow elf? This is… very unexpected." He was looking directly at Gelebor with an expression somewhere between awe and concern. A reasonable reaction, considering. "If I may ask…"

Gelebor knew where this was leading. He didn't bother to wait for the Jarl to finish his thought. "Well, I spent the last few millennia standing in a cave and guarding a wayshrine for Auri-El—we called him Auri-El in my Chantry, not Akatosh—until the Oblivion Purge took place and I was called out into the world. Since then, I've been on a mission to save it." At this point, he glanced at Teldryn. "I'm… not sure I am at liberty to share the details, but it is my understanding you have some means of teleportation to Blackreach?"

"Yes! Yes, we do. It's a rather recent addition. You should speak to Farengar, my court wizard. I believe he is in his laboratory now." The Jarl pointed off to the right, where a great open arch in the wall connected to an adjacent room.

As Gelebor looked around, he noticed there was another arch directly opposite it, to another open space. He pointed to it with a thumb over his shoulder. "Where does that lead, if I may ask?"

"The kitchen," Jarl Balgruuf said blankly.

Teldryn laughed suddenly. "Aaah! I'm—I'm sorry. I apologize. Your court wizard placed his laboratory very interestingly, didn't he?" Before the Jarl could react, Teldryn proceeded to put an arm around Gelebor's shoulders and start guiding him away to the right. "Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf! … All right, Gelebor, let's see what we can do here."

The laboratory, as it was called, was a large, open, sunlit room, containing a sizable L-shaped counter in the middle surrounded by a few chairs (Gelebor was reminded somewhat of the Riverwood Trader), a huge freestanding map of Skyrim on the right, and a few pieces of arcane equipment along the back wall. A robed figure was standing over one of these pieces of equipment, facing away from Gelebor. The court wizard, then.

As the snow elf stepped inside, he noticed something else in the room, over on the left. It was a waist-high column of iridescent stone, attached on the top and bottom to fitted pieces of Dwemer metal. It looked as though its base had been nailed directly into the floor. It couldn't have appeared much more out of place in a Nordic keep such as this. But there it was.

What was even more striking, however, was the person sitting next to the column. It was a Redguard woman, rather young-looking, with her hair tied back besides a couple of loose hanging locks over the sides of her forehead. It looked rather charming, Gelebor thought. Or it would have, but that the rest of her body was covered in some of the most fearsome heavy armor Gelebor had ever seen. It was an intricate but rugged suit of ebony plate, merged somehow over a layer of partially-visible Dwemer metal. And it was otherwise almost entirely undecorated, besides a stylized icon of a gear upon the center of her breastplate, and some block text numerals in relief on her pauldrons, both reading 4 · 1. A full-face helmet was sitting on the floor beside her.

The Redguard had a book on her lap, and was holding it in place with the armored fingers of one gauntlet. Apparently, this was all quite normal in Dragonsreach. But it felt no more Nordic than Gelebor himself, and a fair deal more intimidating.

A man's voice, over to his right, asked, "Can I help you?"

The court wizard was standing there and looking at him, arms folded. He looked to be a Nord, middle-aged and bearded, rather average-looking besides the robe. His expression was one of suspicion and puzzlement.

Maybe Gelebor had been staring a little much just now.

Before he could reply, however, Teldryn said, "We're just here to deliver a message to Blackreach. Nothing you need to concern yourself with, if you have work you're doing."

"Oh, please." The court wizard—the Jarl had called him Farengar—snorted dismissively. "I'd rather look at this. I overheard you earlier, you know. The last surviving snow elf, that's far more interesting than whatever stupid project I was doing a minute ago." He glanced to Gelebor and offered a polite nod of acknowledgment, adding, "Not to treat you only for your race. You're an excellent person on your own merits, I'm sure."

"Thank you," Gelebor said.

The Redguard marked her page with an extra piece of paper, and closed her book with a bit of a frown. She stood and walked up to the two newcomers slowly, relaxed yet obviously alert. "A message? What is it?"

Unfortunately, they hadn't written it down anywhere. Gelebor glanced around the room at its various occupants, then sighed in resignation. Perhaps secrecy was a little much to ask right now. "It's… about the Aetherium," he said. "We have a problem. The last shard was taken by the red draugr."

"Damn," the Redguard breathed. "We've heard plenty about the shards. They'll want to hear about this in Blackreach right away. Thank you for coming to us. Anything else?"

"Only that we'd like to know how to find it again," Teldryn said.

"Right. I'll be back in a few minutes. Wait here, please." With that, the Redguard walked over to the column, and pulled an engraved cylinder of Dwemer metal from her belt pouch. Gelebor realized that the metal pyramid atop the column had the word 'BLACKREACH' printed on it. The cylinder looked to be engraved with other words in Cyrodiilic as well. Presumably, they were the names of more locations.

If this was the teleportation system, it couldn't have looked more different from the Chantry's wayshrines. Gelebor looked on with unconcealed fascination. Here was the work of the Fourth Era's mages and craftsmen. It was so exciting to have the chance to see it in use.

As he watched, the Redguard laid a hand on the pyramid, and was promptly engulfed in a great lashing flood of pure white energy, each wave coming with a scything, humming rush of resonant noise. Then, after just a second, it was over, and the energy dissipated into thin air. The Redguard was nowhere to be seen.

Gelebor's mouth hung open. Fourth Era indeed.

"Feel free to sit while you wait," Farengar said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of the counter.

That was a nice offer. Gelebor had been walking all morning, after all. He sat down with quite the palpable relief to his legs. As Teldryn seated himself beside him, he asked, "How do you know to have two chairs?"

"Strictly speaking, there are three." The court wizard pointed to the one over by the column. "Actually four, including mine." He proceeded to sit down in the chair behind the counter, then stretched his arms out luxuriously and smiled at them.

The counter had on it a variety of miscellanea suitable to laboratories, notably a sizable stack of papers with a soul gem on top, presumably to hold them all down. Gelebor found himself both amused and impressed that one person could accumulate so much work-in-progress material in such a neat space.

Teldryn said, "I see your laboratory is across from the kitchen. That must be interesting."

"Sure, I suppose," Farengar shrugged. "It smells nice in here sometimes. Back when Dragonsreach was first built, this room might've been used for something else, but when I began working here, it was the designated laboratory space."

Gelebor stroked his chin thoughtfully. He was still rather enjoying that he was able to sit down right then. "I wonder where they were originally meant to work. Did your courts have their own wizards at that time?"

That seemed to pique Farengar's interest. He leaned forwards a bit in his seat as he spoke. "You know, they may not have. Earlier in our history, mages were treated in much higher regard. I think they were more common, certainly. It may not have been necessary for courts to have one around just for when someone needs some magic dealt with."

"It's a pity," Teldryn murmured. "You're obviously quite useful. Mages are in general, I think."

Farengar nodded appreciatively and continued. "As far as this lab goes… It's not ideal. There's always noise from the main hall, since…" He gestured over their heads at the arch behind them. "There's no door. And I bet there's some forgotten illusion magic that would muffle all the sound outside this room, but I don't know it yet."

The Dunmer asked, "What about an actual door?"

"Well, I'd pay to have one installed, but I'd have to go through the Jarl, and… well, you know, that would be rather hostile of me. Skyrim thinks poorly enough of its mages already. A court wizard should be approachable." Another gesture, this time directly towards them both. "Hence the chairs."

This conversation was interesting to listen to. Gelebor was feeling now, as he very often did, that he simply had quite a lot to become up to date on. So he was content to sit and listen. Teldryn and Farengar were answering questions he might not have even thought to ask.

Beside him, Teldryn chuckled lightly. "I don't think I've ever heard of a court wizard caring to be approachable. They usually just want to do their own research, don't they?"

"Well, you'd be surprised," Farengar said, nodding sideways in a gesture of fair recognition. "The court wizard of Blackreach is a very nice fellow indeed. He's a Khajiit, name of J'zargo. He visited here the very same day the teleportation column was installed. Wanted me to dual-enchant some leather armor, for fire and frost resistance. I suppose he planned on just wearing it everywhere."

Now Teldryn was openly laughing aloud. "A court wizard? Wearing _armor?_ What—" Then he abruptly stopped and frowned. "Wait. Did you just say dual-enchant?"

Farengar's expression didn't change. "Yes, I can do that. That's how I can afford to do things like install doors in buildings on a whim."

"I could go for some dual-enchanted gear," Teldryn muttered.

"I could go for some gear in general," Gelebor remarked.

His companion nodded sympathetically. "Your armor coverage might be a little lacking, yes."

Farengar said, "You know, if you're looking for armor, you could go talk to Adrianne Avenicci, at Warmaiden's. It's the blacksmith's shop down by the gates."

"There?" Teldryn raised his eyebrows. "Not the Skyforge?"

"Well, Eorlund Gray-Mane works that forge. He's the best blacksmith just about anywhere, but he makes most of his gear from scratch as people need it, so you might need to wait a while. Adrianne works more in bulk. … Also Eorlund's wares are as expensive as some of my enchants."

"I'm quite fine with not visiting the Skyforge," Gelebor muttered darkly.

"What? Why—" Realization dawned on Farengar's face suddenly. "Oooooh. Ouch. I am so sorry. Are you going to be all right?"

Gelebor shrugged. "As long as Ysgramor's latest descendants-in-arms don't see fit to finish what he started."

"Well, we're not exactly at war anymore. If that's, uh… any consolation." The court wizard was still giving him a very apologetic look.

"That's because we lost," he replied flatly. "I do say that carefully. Your ancestors drove my people into hiding, but they did not destroy us. That honor went to the Dwemer. So while my people are gone now, it's not because you won—only that we lost."

Teldryn reached over and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He said nothing. Perhaps there wasn't very much to say.

For most of his journey, Gelebor had had the luxury of avoiding thinking about the history of his kind. There were so few reminders of what had happened during that time. He had yet to even cross paths with any of the Betrayed themselves. But for all his world-saving endeavors, and all his faith in Auri-El, the fact did remain that he was the only person to still represent the race of snow elves.

All of the history, the culture, the generations of hard work by intelligent people he had seen these past weeks from the Nords—it had been done millennia ago by the snow elves, also. But now, all of those people's lives, all the goodness they had brought into the world, existed only in Gelebor's distant memory.

It was such a waste. He hated what war did to the world.

But just as quickly as those thoughts came, another came as well—if the Shadow Unending proceeded on its present course, all of the Nords' accomplishments and legacy would fall into nothingness, just as the snow elves' had. And there was nothing more or less special about Skyrim's present people than those of the past. The only difference was that this time, Gelebor was in a position to change the future.

He shook his head slowly. "It doesn't matter now," he said quietly. "The legacy of my people is not what we must worry about saving."

"You could write some books about it, you know," Farengar offered.

That was… not what Gelebor had expected. He blinked a couple times. "Uh… What?"

"If you want to preserve the legacy of your people. Publish some books, have some copies made. They'll spread through the scholarly community like wildfire. You may not be aware of this, but a lot of us would really, really like to know more about what the Falmer used to be."

"He prefers calling them snow elves," Teldryn said, pointing to Gelebor with one finger.

"Yes," Gelebor nodded dully.

Farengar, for his part, was undeterred. "Well, make that distinction in your books, and other interested people will start making it too."

"In the event that I survive this all," he began to reply—but then the cascade of energy began to pour forth from the column once again, and the Redguard woman reappeared.

"Hello," she smiled, before glancing back to her chair. "I see no one took my helmet."

A moment later, another cascade of energy came through, and someone much, much larger appeared alongside her. This one was completely covered in pure ebony armor, clearly Nordic in make, adorned with silver scrollwork. And he was likely over eight feet tall. The teleportation column didn't even make it up to hip level on him. He looked down at everyone in the room through an imposing, expressionless visor.

In a way, it looked like a much more ornate version of the Redguard woman's armor. That was interesting. Gelebor wasn't sure if there was a connection there.

Either way, he didn't concern himself with trying not to stare.

"Hey, guys, I'm Kamian," the huge armored figure said in a perfectly nice and mild voice, waving politely with one hand. "Acting leader of the Black Machine. Sidona here says you're the ones who've been hunting for the Aetherium shards."

Teldryn stood up from his chair, and walked over to give Kamian a handshake. "Teldryn Sero," he said. "We don't have them with us. Our colleague Vidrald decided to keep them out of the city."

Gelebor supposed it would be good of him to stand up as well. He did so, introduced himself by name, and added, "I hope you have some idea of how we can deal with this."

"Nice to see you again," Farengar smiled to Kamian.

"You too," Kamian nodded, before turning his inscrutably expressionless visor towards Gelebor. "I'm going to start a search for the last shard immediately. We have a fair few mages who can help out with this. You can stay here if you like, for ease of contact, or if you want to move but keep in touch, you can just tell me where you're planning to go. I don't want to try to track you guys down in the wilderness."

"Well, we'd been planning on meeting Vidrald in Riverwood," Teldryn said. "Lucan Valerius seemed quite impressed by you, by the way. And your brother."

Kamian laughed pleasantly. "Everyone's impressed by my brother. But all right. Riverwood it is."

"We might want to buy some armor first," Gelebor murmured sidelong to Teldryn.

The Dunmer gave him an impatient look. "We don't have that much coin left, you know."

"Oh, do you fellows need coin? Uh… ghf…" Kamian reached down to his belt, unfastened a gigantic coin purse from it, and lobbed it to Teldryn. "Here, catch."

Teldryn caught it against his chest, then promptly stumbled back and fell on his behind.

Kamian ignored that result and continued talking like normal. "Have a thousand septims. Anyway, I'm going to need to get back soon, so just talk to Sidona if you need anything else with Blackreach. And really, don't hesitate to ask if you need anything else. We're putting our faith in this Aetherium endeavor. It might be our only chance to set the Aurbis right."

Gelebor asked, "Can we go through there ourselves?"

"Not without one of those little cylinder things, oh wow, Zaryth would kill me if she heard me calling them that," Kamian laughed. "Also, the other end is completely covered in security measures, largely of the lethal sort. We wouldn't have a gateway into our inner sanctum without making sure people can't just come in at random."

"I need a wheelbarrow," Teldryn said weakly from where he was on the floor.

Gelebor ignored him for now. "Who's Zaryth?"

"One of our mages. She's the one who made these teleportation devices. We have her, we have J'zargo, I think we have some new elf kid, I… I dunno, that's not my profession." Kamian waved his hands dismissively.

"Aicantar," Sidona chimed in helpfully.

Kamian pointed at her without looking. "That's the one. But yeah, I need to get back there now, so, good luck to you both!"

And with that, he walked over, put his hand atop the column, and vanished as quickly as he'd arrived.

Teldryn stood up slowly. He didn't bother to try to pick up the coin purse from where it had landed. "Did… that just happen?"

"Welcome to life," Farengar said dryly. "Everything is crazy and Blackreach is fantastic. I suppose you'll be wanting to go get your armor, then?"

"Good plan, yes." Gelebor walked over to the coin purse on the floor, crouched down to put his hands around it, and lifted. "Oh—oh gods this is heavy. Help, helphelphelp—"

Teldryn cut in. "Put it down, would you?"

The snow elf was only too happy to comply. The coin purse thudded loudly on the floor when it landed. "This feels more like a coin _sack_. How did he even carry this?"

"I don't know," Farengar shrugged. "A carry weight enchant?"

"He's just strong," Sidona spoke up again.

"Right." Teldryn nodded, then knelt down over the coin purse and began unfastening it. "We'll split this half and half, Gelebor. Half in your pack, half in mine. We'll see if we can start lightening it from there."

On the way towards Whiterun, Gelebor had contemplated how quickly his perspective of the world had been changing. It didn't surprise him that it had changed even more upon entering the city. At this rate, it would change yet further by the time he and Teldryn finally left. But they had just spent a couple of minutes in the company of the Dragonborn's brother—the current leader of his personal army, and possibly one of the finest warriors in the world. Only a couple of minutes, and it had been enough for Gelebor to see everything differently.

He understood now what sort of person was watching over them. One who was so casually good-natured that he'd handed them practically too much gold to carry without even stopping his line of thought. And as Gelebor thought about it some more, he realized that Kamian had just gone that whole conversation without commenting on Gelebor's race. That made him the first person in the Fourth Era to speak to Gelebor at length without doing so. Perhaps he had made the correct guess that people had been commenting on it quite enough already.

Still, for now, they had business to take care of. That was best not ignored. Contemplation could wait.

For that matter, so could writing a book. Gelebor had not considered that possibility, but it sounded quite satisfying. He was almost rather looking forward to finishing his part in this conflict, simply so he could begin writing down his experiences.

"Vidrald is expecting us in Riverwood," he said to Teldryn. "We shouldn't linger here for any longer than we need to."

At this point, the Dunmer was already putting gold coins into his pack by the fistful. "Buy some gear, buy some other supplies, get some luncheon at the local inn." He grinned. "I can't wait to have a hot meal. It's been… uh… I was going to say it's been ages, I suppose it's been several days. Basically ages."

"I'm sure that will be very enjoyable for you," Gelebor smiled wryly. He'd had his fill of Skyrim's foodstuffs. At this point, he found himself content to just watch.

Soon enough, the gold had been divvied up, and the two of them were setting back out into the city. The snow elf had no idea what to expect from his world today, but he supposed that his foreknowledge wasn't necessary. He could take things as they came.

Then Farengar said, "By the way, has anyone told you yet that your mysterious enemy is actually Alduin?"


	39. Ria 7

Fredas, 7:28 PM, 50th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Eastmarch

Selthrei.

That was the sword's name.

It had taken a trip back to Whiterun and a lengthy chat with Farengar to find out what the glyphs on the blade actually meant. It turned out that they were in Ehlnofex, which was basically the oldest language to have ever existed in the world. The ancient descendants of the gods had spoken it, during their time.

And according to Farengar, 'Selthrei' translated to something like 'the tears of sacrifice'. Which was great.

It had certainly caused quite the reaction, when Ria had brought that sword back to Jorrvaskr. No one had disputed her story of meeting Shor himself—it was kind of hard to do that when she had the proof right in her hand—but no one knew what to make of it, either. Ria had been obviously chosen for something. But her fellow Companions had been divided about whether she was being blessed beyond belief or, well, just plain sacrificed. Even Ria herself didn't know the answer to that. Maybe it was both.

Either way, she was still figuring out just what this thing could do. Good thing she wasn't short on practice.

There were four of them today. Erik, Athis, Njada and herself. Four of them, walking in a line abreast through the steaming expanse of southern Eastmarch. Heading towards one of the many, many impact craters that had been appearing all over Skyrim's countryside. It'd been their target ever since they'd seen it, from all the way up at the western lip of the springs.

Why this one in particular? The short answer: This crater in particular was very big. The long answer: They'd been hunting down the red draugr for weeks now. And it just stood to reason that some of them would be here. For some reason, they really liked the craters, and the bigger the better. Dealing with these wasn't even a paid job for anybody right now. It was just what needed to be done.

This whole part of Skyrim was basically just a giant, hold-sized pit in the ground, filled with broken rocks and hot springs. It was virtually impossible to run any lasting roads through, let alone actually make a home in. The nearest settlement was Kynesgrove, and they were a good two days south of there. So Ria's only real hope of company on this trip was in her Shield-Siblings.

"This really is a waste, you know," Athis said. They'd been all silent for most of the evening. Now the sun was setting, the bright stars were out, and the crater was coming up. And Athis was talking. "The four of us, all on one job. Shield-Siblings fight in pairs for a reason."

Erik replied, "Because no matter how many enemies there are, they're no match for two of us?"

"Because it puts us all in one place. Think about it. Craters all over Skyrim, red draugr crawling all over—the Companions should be trying to fight in as many places at once. But here we are."

Njada snorted dismissively. "We've already lost a few Companions to these draugr. They had Shield-Siblings too."

And that was true. Ria hadn't really been close to any of them, but in total, there _were_ a few dozen Companions, and several had been killed just trying to handle the red draugr. For all the remaining Companions knew, even more had died by now with no one to report it. It would take weeks to realize if someone had gone missing during their latest journey, and by then it would be far too late.

Pretty grim stuff, all in all. But that was exactly why Ria—in spite of having this really interesting new sword, which left her not even needing a bow anymore—had brought along three Shield-Siblings instead of one. The red draugr had a nasty habit of overwhelming their opponents in ways they weren't prepared for. It had happened to her in Dustman's Cairn, and she'd nearly died for it. The only thing that had saved her was that surprise run-in with Shor. She wasn't counting on any more random blessings from here on in.

That all being said, Ria _was_ still carrying her bow, along with her other weaponry. She wasn't that overconfident in Selthrei's power.

"Well, I can't speak for the talents of anyone else," Athis said. "But you do understand what I'm talking about here. We could be going after _two_ draugr sites right now. Erik and Ria could be here, and you and I, Njada, we could be all the way in Hjaalmarch, or Haafingar."

"You make it sound like you don't like our company," Ria remarked mildly.

For some reason, that seemed to actually take the dark elf by surprise. Ria had no idea why. He'd been pointing to the idea for long enough. "What? No! Nothing like that. But you've seen what these draugr can do. I just want us to be as much on top of it as we can."

Njada laughed out loud. "You think you and I could take on the draugr together, Athis? … You know the draugr don't bleed, right? You can't just poke them full of holes and hope for the best."

"Draugr have weak points, just like anything else," Athis said primly. "You cut a tendon, you've disabled a limb. You hit their spine, they'll fall right down. Not that different from living folk. Blood isn't everything. My daggers aren't vampires."

Athis, as it happened, was particularly fond of smaller blades. It didn't exactly help him with being the only dark elf in the Companions. Sometimes it gave off the impression that he'd rather be sneaking about and slitting throats than having a real battle like Nords preferred. Even if that wasn't actually true.

Njada asked, "How many draugr have you even killed, Athis?"

The dark elf sighed loudly. "That's a trick question and you know it. Any warrior who's ever explored a Nordic ruin has lost count of that number. If you're asking about the red draugr, well… you've been on the same jobs as me. You know what we've seen."

That wasn't helpful. Ria frowned. "What have you seen, exactly?"

"A lot of draugr," Njada said. "They don't like sticking to their crypts anymore, seems like. What really puzzles me is how _many_ of them there are. How many ancient Nords warriors were there?"

Erik chimed in, "Keep in mind, the draugr have the potential to outnumber us ten to one. Maybe more. We're only one generation of warriors, right? We were all born sometime in the past forty years."

"Not me," Athis said. "Elf, remember?"

"Right, sure. But you get the idea. We're only the warriors who are alive in year 202 of the Fourth Era. The draugr are the preserved warriors of an entire era. Centuries and centuries of servants to the Dragon Cult, all being born, living, and not-quite-dying. Our only protection from them has been that they've all been content to stay in their crypts. So now, the real question is why they haven't just swarmed over our cities and killed us all."

Ria was frowning again. She had to think this over. "Maybe… well, aye, maybe. It could be that there aren't _that_ many. It could be that Alduin's trying to conserve his draugr, because if he uses them on any all-out sieges—well, two things, that'd probably invite the dragons to swoop in any incinerate them, and it'd also be that many fewer draugr he has left for his other plans. And he obviously has other plans. What's this obsession he has with the craters?"

"They're always just sitting in them," Njada said. "So… I'unno. Maybe craters are the new crypts."

The four of them fell silent for a little bit. The lip of the crater was pretty much just on the horizon from here. Once they got closer, they'd need to quiet down. It wasn't good practice to stroll into a battlefield talking about something else.

After half a minute or so, though, Erik asked, "How old _are_ you, Athis?"

The dark elf replied without missing a beat. "Around sixty. I joined the Companions when I was thirty. Back then, our best active member was Skjor. He was the Vilkas of his time. But by the time I met him, I'd already learned how to fight, and how to survive. Growing up in Morrowind is no easier than growing up in Skyrim, I'll say that much."

"I didn't realize you'd lived there," Ria said. And that was the truth. She'd always just sort of assumed that a dark elf would have to be born in Skyrim to want to join the Companions. So… "Why did you switch to the Nord way of doing things?"

"Well, it's better," he replied simply. "Divines help the lot of them now anyway, with so many of the Daedra gone. Or … well, that's not right, I suppose. They don't want the Divines' help. I've heard Azura's still around, which is mercy enough. The point is, there's not really much good in living in Morrowind these days. They had a rich, beautiful culture once. But it was gone before I was born. My heart yearned for a life with more hope than that."

Erik commented, "We are rather obsessed with dying like warriors, you know."

"Better than dying like cattle," Athis muttered.

Personally, Ria didn't know all that much about the history of Morrowind. But maybe she should have. There were quite a lot of dark elves in Skyrim, she'd noticed. And even if they weren't one of the races of men, they deserved their due.

Then again, maybe she was a little more tilted towards acceptance of other races than most around here. It would be hard for her to proclaim that Skyrim belonged to the Nords, when she was an Imperial herself.

Even her new fancy sword wasn't very Nordic. It felt like something much older than that. At least, ignoring that it'd been forged two weeks ago. Everyone had been kind of bothering her about it—but thankfully, less because it didn't feel like a Nord weapon, and more because it implied rather ominous things about her personal fate. So that was good, right?

"With any luck, none of us will be dying at all today," Njada said. "I have a shield for a reason. Ria, Erik, you have heavy armor for a reason. Athis… I don't know what you have, but I'm sure you're no more eager than us to go get killed."

"My preferred style of fighting doesn't involve standing there and weathering the enemy's blows," Athis replied airily.

"Right. I have my shield, Ria and Erik have their heavy armor, and you have your attitude. We're all going to be just fine."

Ria held up a hand. "Quiet now," she said. "We're getting close."

With that, she drew Selthrei from its sheath, and continued forwards with the blade up on guard. The lip of the crater was probably a mile or so away, but it'd still pay to be cautious. It wasn't that Ria expected to have the element of surprise—it was that she didn't want the draugr to enjoy any surprise of their own.

Some minutes passed. The sun inched down ever so slightly over the mountains. It was a clear evening, and the stars above were burning bright. Down below on the ground, Ria was walking over pale brown crags of stone, broken and bent in odd sloping plateaus, dotted here and there with odd bits of plant life. It was all getting pretty dim at this point.

After a few of those minutes, the ground began to slope upward. The ground seemed even more broken than normal, here. Ria realized that they were beginning to climb the very lip of the crater. Soon, they'd be looking inside it. This was sure to be a fun experience.

She whispered, "Bows out, wedge formation," and stepped ahead of the others. Njada and Erik fell in at her left and right, and Athis moved to behind Njada in turn. Not exactly a symmetrical wedge, but it was close.

The idea was that if they were together like this, they'd present a smaller target from the front, while still being able to attack normally. All they had to do was—

" _ro DAH!"_

Ria had no time to react. None of them did. There was an ear-splitting crack of thunder, flash of blue energy rolling down the slope at her, and then she was hit by an unstoppable wall of force. Her feet left the ground, and the ground fell away and she was looking up at the stars. Some distant instinct told her to tuck her chin down. She obeyed it, but she was floating right then. Nothing felt real.

Then the ground slammed hard into the back of her shoulders, and she tumbled right over onto her front. She stopped herself with her left forearm, the steel of her gauntlet scraping over the rock as she ground to a halt. That was… that was a little dizzying. Nothing felt broken. She picked up her head and looked around.

Her fellow Companions were doing no better. They were all on the ground some distance behind her. And when she looked at the lip of the crater again, it was teeming with black silhouettes with glowing red eyes. They looked less like draugr and more like nightmares from another world.

As she picked herself up again, the arrows started coming in. Every single draugr in sight—Ria counted at least twenty pairs of eyes in this front row—had a bow in hand. They were zipping over her head, bouncing off the stones, bouncing off her armor. Athis' voice cried out in pain behind her.

Of course Athis would get hit. He didn't even bring a shield. What did he expect with that?

Ria sprang back to her feet in a second. The draugr were maybe fifteen yards ahead of her, just on the edge of the crater. Twenty of them, one of her, a fifteen-yard gap, and she didn't have a bow.

With a deft full-circle turn, she flung Selthrei point-first at the lead draugr in the crowd. It shot forward through the air, seemingly of its own will, and struck her target right in the chest. A fast, deadly impalement. The draugr began to stagger backwards as the light left its eyes.

Then Ria closed her empty sword hand into a fist, and her sword was instantly engulfed in a huge explosion of lightning.

It was so bright under this sky, she couldn't even see what exactly was happening. But she heard it snapping outwards in all different directions, and when it was done, there was a big smoldering gap in the draugr's ranks. There must have been no more than ten of them left, five or so on either side.

Behind her, her Shield-Siblings were finally getting up. Athis had extracted his arrow from wherever, and was drinking a healing potion. That was good. She didn't want to face these remaining ten alone.

She opened her hand again. A rippling aura of brilliant white light blossomed in it, and Selthrei vanished from the incinerated draugr's remains ahead, only to re-emerge into existence right in her grasp. She closed her fingers around its hilt once again with a smile. This was so much easier than having to go over and retrieve it every time. Shor had been very considerate in his weapon design.

Still, these remaining draugr still had their bows out. And it only took one arrow in the right spot to send a warrior to Sovngarde, armor or not. At this distance, the draugr had the advantage. And Selthrei wasn't ready to be thrown another time. There was only one way to handle this now.

"Companions," she said. "Charge!"

Without being told, Njada and Athis ran for the draugr on the left of the gap, while Erik joined Ria in heading for the right. All four of them closed the distance at a breakneck sprint. They had to close the distance as quickly as possible. The arrows were already coming at them again. It only took one of those to score a kill.

"… _ro DAH!"_

One of the right-hand draugr sent another thundering bluish wave right at Ria. She met it with a vicious outward swipe of her sword through the air. A crescent of burning white lightning spread forward, traced into being from the tip of her blade, and the wave broke and dissipated into nothing against it. The lightning spent itself shortly afterward too, before it could reach the draugr, but it'd done its work. Ria and Erik continued their charge.

See? That was what happened when she had time to react. It was an important difference.

By the time Ria had gotten to sword range, the draugr had discarded their bows. They came her all at once, swords and axes readying for their first swings—there would be no blocking so many strikes at the same time—so she did the sensible thing, and lunged in to slam into the first draugr shoulder-first. As its axe descended uselessly over her back, her sword plunged into its withered belly. A surge of light flashed through its flesh, and its whole middle portion was reduced to little more than ash.

This would be the part where the other draugr would try and kill her while she was distracted. Fortunately, Erik had the same idea for them. The instant Ria had made her strike, her Shield-Brother ran in at her left side, covering her back, attacking where she couldn't see. Metal things were clashing back there. Ria didn't look. She was a little busy right now with staying alive.

"So, I've been thinking," Erik said over his shoulder to her.

Ria still didn't look. "No, _really?_ "

"Do you think the rest of us should start using staffs or something? Even things out a little?"

She didn't really have the chance to answer. Two more draugr came at her at once. One on the left with a sword, one on the right with a big battle-axe. She really did hate those battle-axes. The sword-wielding one waited for the other to begin its strike, so they could attack at the same time. Maybe they thought they'd get past her defenses that way.

Big mistake. Ria wasn't waiting for anyone.

She made two attacks in one step—chopping down on the left draugr's sword arm with her own blade, and kicking the right draugr hard in the side of the knee. From there, it took only a couple of finishing strikes to bring them both down for good. Two fewer pairs of glowing red eyes to bother her. That was nice.

Behind her, Erik was fighting two draugr himself. He'd caught an incoming axe beneath his arm, against his armor, and was in the middle of chopping down on the draugr's wrists. The second draugr was preparing a strike with a war hammer, so Ria spun around Erik's side and pointed her sword right at the undead being's red-eyed head. All it took was one bolt of lightning. One instant discharge from Selthrei's crystalline blade, and those red eyes were extinguished in a mess of ash and smoke.

Erik helpfully put his own sword through the draugr's neck just to make sure. He'd already finished off the axe-swinger somehow. Good for him.

He turned around to give her an indignant look. "Ria. Just because you have the sword."

"What do you want from me?"

"You don't have to start stealing my kills too!"

Ria threw her hands in the air. "I'm not keeping score! Are you keeping score?"

Over on the other side, it looked like Njada and Athis were holding their own. The draugr weren't really in a formation, they were just trying to surround the two Companions. But Njada wasn't letting them. She was circling around the group with her shield raised, darting in for quick attacks whenever they let their guard down. Just beside her, Athis was staying by her shield's protection, parrying strikes with his daggers and making similarly fast little strikes. Neither of them had gotten injured yet.

Ria and Erik glanced at each other, then started their charge anew.

On the way, Erik muttered to her, "Actually, I'm just crediting all of your kills to your sword from now on."

"Would you shut up," Ria grumbled, still mid-charge.

It took maybe four seconds for them to cross the distance. In that time, Njada finally managed to lunge up and strike one of the draugr in the face with her shield. When she did, Athis used the opportunity to plunge both of his daggers into the draugr's belly, and then rend them outwards just in time to resume his parrying. A brutally swift killing move. Ria couldn't help but be impressed. Wounds like that were usually less from daggers and more from greatswords.

She got there just as the one eviscerated draugr's body landed on the ground. She hit the nearest draugr sword-first, right in the back, as it was preparing to take another swing at Njada. Predictably, the others all glanced at her, and the nearest two attacked with sword swings of their own, one high, one low. Ria ducked her head down to avoid the high one, and pulled her new impaled draugr-shield in front of her to block the low one. Then she let off a lightning bolt with Selthrei's blade, through the impaled draugr's back and into the low-striking one's chest.

Erik met one of the draugr right as it was preparing to hit him overhead with a mace. He twisted his body aside at the last second, letting the weapon swing down past his front, then grabbed the draugr by the far shoulder and heaved it backward over his own leg. And then he was blocking another incoming strike, this time from one with a war axe, before the first draugr had even finished falling onto its back.

While no one was looking, Athis used his daggers to slash open the backs of the axe-wielding draugr's knees. Right through the tendons, just like he'd described. The draugr fell flat on its back. Njada took the opportunity to use chop her sword right down on the thing's throat, as with an axe. She came very, very close to taking its head off. It still died, of course.

And that left Erik to finish off the one he'd just taken down. Good for him.

There were only two draugr left, and one had been wounded by Ria's lightning bolt. They'd closed to a back-to-back defensive posture, swords in hand, ready to fight. It was just sort of hopeless at this point. Erik and Athis both jumped in at the same time, catching and parrying the draugr's swords against their own weapons, and that left Njada and Ria to make the last strikes. They both got one draugr each, courtesy of their Shield-Brothers. Two neat stabs, two final kills.

"Hello, Ria," Njada grinned as her draugr slumped aside.

"Hello, Njada," Ria returned the grin. That _had_ gone well after all.

And that was it. The deed was done. Ria wrenched her sword free—it wasn't even dirtied up, it didn't seem to be affected by these things—and took a look around.

The lip of the crater was covered in dead draugr. They were all staying put now. She gave them some extra sword strikes just to make sure, then walked up to the crater's very edge. If there were a second ambush waiting, it'd be down in here.

Then she stopped in her tracks. This was definitely no ambush.

The inside of the crater was huge, like she'd expected. It might've been a quarter mile or so in width. Something on that scale. And while the drop from the edge here was only about five feet, the ground sloped downward to a much deeper center. And it was a surprisingly smooth slope, too. The stone was broken and flattened and reduced practically to gravel. Steam was rising from a few spots around it.

All of that, she'd basically expected. What she hadn't expected was the pit in the middle of it all.

Even at a glance, she could tell that it wasn't part of the impact crater. Right at the center, right at the deepest point, there was a gaping circular pit in the ground, maybe thirty, forty feet wide. A short distance to its right was a gigantic pile of loose rocks.

"Well, look at that," she murmured.

The other Companions came up behind her quickly enough. Athis asked, "Should we go in there?"

"We'd better," Ria grunted, as she hopped off the edge and landed on the rocks below. It felt basically the same down here, same rocks, same air—but for some reason, the moment her feet touched the ground, it felt like her body was in a place where it didn't belong. This shouldn't have been a traversable location. She was inside a crater.

Then again, maybe this exact spot had been aboveground before the impact. It had created a bit of a ridge, after all. She shrugged it off and started walking towards the center, leaving the others to join her as they liked.

Which they did, going by the footfalls behind her, but she was busy looking down at this pit right now. And keeping her sword out, because she wasn't sure what to expect today. This didn't feel right at all.

"I presume the draugr did this," Athis' voice said from behind her.

Njada's voice replied, "Well, I can't imagine anyone else would. The question is, why?"

"Well, they were obviously looking for something," Ria said. "And going by the fact that they were still _here_ when we arrived, they probably haven't found it."

"Or they found it but they weren't done using it," Athis said.

After a while of walking, Erik came up by Ria's side. He still had his sword out, good man. "I've never heard of them doing this before. Usually they just _sit_ in the craters, don't they?"

"Aye, at least this makes a little more sense," said Njada. "Thing is, what would they even be looking for?"

Ria shrugged. "A question for Farengar, maybe. He's been informative enough."

Erik said, "He did tell us the name of your sword. Which, by the way—that was incredible. Is there a reason the Companions don't have any spellswords? Some reason in particular? I sort of want to see more of them, now."

"It's… it's possible, perhaps, a… a long time ago," Athis said, hesitantly. "I hope you don't take this poorly, but the people of Skyrim are not fond of magic users as of late. Warriors aren't inclined to learn the arcane arts, and mages aren't inclined to learn the art of steel."

"Makes sense," Ria nodded. "Is that why everyone's been acting strange about Selthrei?"

Everyone went quiet. That was probably enough of an answer right there. She frowned.

Eventually, Erik said, "It _is_ a little bit out of nowhere. I can't say I'm complaining about the thing's effectiveness, though. It's stronger than all of us put together."

Ria shook her head firmly. "I wouldn't say that. If that were true, I wouldn't insist on bringing you all along."

"Well, I suppose we'll need to wait and see how it plays out with the Shadow Unending," Athis remarked. "It might stop being so powerful once this is over."

"That's a hopeful thought," Njada said flatly.

Ria knew what she meant. It was hopeful because everyone already expected a different, much worse drawback. This sword was called the Tears of Sacrifice, not the Tears of Temporary Power.

She began to say, "Well, as long as I have it here to use, I…"

Then she stopped.

They'd reached the edge of the pit. Reasonably close by, at least. There was a ramp, maybe five or six feet wide, spiraling around the sides, cut right into the stone. It went down to a dark, shadowy unfinished bottom, at least as deep as the pit was wide. But all Ria could see down there were a lot of loose stones.

Maybe it would've looked a little less frightening earlier in the day. At the moment, it looked like the entrance to some kind of nightmare death-cave.

"Reminds me a little of a stone quarry," Erik commented.

"Well, it makes sense," Ria replied, without taking her eyes off the pit. "If they're searching for something, and they don't know where exactly it is, might as well just dig the whole thing out. I bet there's a whole lot of pickaxes just sitting at the bottom, too."

Njada and Athis came up by them in short order. Njada said, "This crater we're in can't be older than a week. They're quick diggers, huh?"

"Diligent, maybe," Ria nodded. "Also, this stone was already quite broken up, I think. Might've been quick to—"

" _ro DAH!"_

She didn't even have time to turn around. By the time she'd realized she was hearing the thunderclap of the shout, the wave was already hitting her in the back. She felt herself fly forwards right off the edge of the pit—and for a split second, she was looking straight down at the sheer drop to the inky black floor below.

That was a scary sight if she'd ever had one. For some reason, she actually made a note of how scary it was, right as she was still in the middle of the air.

Then she slammed into the far wall of the pit, back-first and upside-down. A moment later, the ramp below came right up at her. She had just enough time to remember to tuck in her head, again, before the stone surface hit the back of her shoulders.

Her ears were ringing, and she didn't know why. Someone was screaming. It didn't make sense. She struggled to get back to her feet, and to look up at the edge of the pit.

There was a single draugr standing there. Its silhouette was barely visible against the dim evening sky, but she could see its glowing red eyes perfectly. They must have missed one. It must have been lying in wait.

The best thing to do right now would be to throw Selthrei at this thing and stop it where it was. But then Ria noticed that her hands were both empty. She actually looked down at them, just to make sure.

Was her head not working right? It might not have been working right.

She couldn't see the sword anywhere nearby. It must have fallen into the pit. She closed her eyes, and began to focus. All it had to do was get back here. It could do that from anywhere. And sure enough, it began to remake itself in her hand right then and there.

Then, something punched—no, something jabbed Ria sharply in the arm. Right in the sword arm. She looked down, and.. there was an arrow in it. It'd gone straight through her bicep. It was just right through her! She couldn't believe it.

Now her heart was hammering like crazy. It was making it so hard to think. She couldn't hear anything, she could barely see, everything was so messy. But she did have to think this through, somehow.

Her arm wasn't answering, so she just pried Selthrei's hilt out of her right hand with the left, and used that to throw it at the draugr. It probably should've fallen miserably short, but Selthrei got the idea. It flew right up there in a perfect, near-instant straight line, and hit the draugr right beneath the chin. Practically took its head off, she bet, just by going straight through it.

Then she fell slowly to her knees, and started fumbling with her left hand for a healing potion. She wasn't feeling good right now. Something wasn't feeling good. She just… everything was so fuzzy and tingly. It didn't feel good. She was tired of trying to deal with this.

Everything turned to a blur. There wasn't anything to do, or feel, or think. Just a blur.

"Ria? Ria. Hey." A familiar voice was talking to her.

She opened her eyes slowly. There were some blurry, orange shapes in front of her, but mostly things were dark. She slowly realized she was looking at Erik's face. Athis was standing nearby, holding a torch.

"What… I don't understand anything," Ria said.

For some reason, the others laughed when they heard her talking. Erik said, "You got hit with an arrow. You're all right now, but I think it was poisoned."

A poisoned arrow. That was un-draugr-like of them. She sighed. More words came out. "Are… are you all, uh… all right?"

"Just a few cuts and bruises, mostly. Njada broke an ankle during the fall. Nothing some healing potions couldn't fix. We, uh… we're sort of, uh… out of them, now, though. Used the last ones on you."

Njada, from somewhere, added, "There's nothing down there but rocks. And pickaxes. You were right about that."

Ria sat up slowly and looked around. Then she spat a bunch of very rude words. "One time. One time, that's all I'm asking! Just one time, could I get in a fight where I don't end up courting death?"

"At least Shor didn't have to step in again this time," Erik said mildly.

"Ugh. Let's get out of here." The moment Ria said it, her Shield-Brother was helping her to her feet. That was nice of him.

It looked like her arm was all right, now. She was going to have to get some kind of armor with better coverage than this steel stuff. Heavy armor was nice, but only where the armor actually _was_. Either way, she idly summoned Selthrei back into her hand and sheathed it as they walked on out.

The sky was a little darker overhead. More stars were beginning to appear now, not just the few overly-bright ones. The moons were pretty close to the horizon, too, which left most of the sky just wide open.

"We could make camp somewhere around here," Njada said, as they emerged back into the crater. "Resume our travels in the morning."

Erik made an annoyed sound. "I don't know about you, but I'm not exactly aching to stay any longer in this crater. Or near it. This whole place feels wrong."

"It might be the draugr," Athis commented.

"Aye, that might be it," Erik nodded, before breaking into a quiet chuckle. "All right. Well… Why don't we, uh…"

His words faltered and trailed off silently. He was looking at something. Ria instinctively looked in the same direction.

There were purple shapes outside the crater, almost due south. Three giant, glowing purple-blue shapes, big blobs on top and a few hanging lines below, just floating in the air, moving gently along.

"That's new," Ria said.

"By the gods," Athis murmured. "Those are netches."

Everyone stopped and looked at him. Ria didn't even recognize the word.

The dark elf seemed to understand their confusion, because he continued, "They're animals from Morrowind. And Solstheim, these days, I think. Gentle creatures. They feed on the silt, they're harmless to us."

Njada stepped past him slowly, staring at the three floating shapes. "Animals from Morrowind. What are they doing in Eastmarch?"

"I don't know. This makes no sense. I don't know how they even got here, let alone why."

"Shor personally gave me a sword, don't count on things making sense," Ria said blithely. "Do we want to give these a closer look?"

"I'd be up for that," Erik said. "Might as well see what they're up to, right?"

Njada and Athis nodded in agreement, and that was that. They were off towards the edge of the crater, to go investigate the new mystery of Eastmarch.

Around halfway to the edge of the crater, Athis said, "They look bigger than I remember."

Ria asked, "You've seen them yourself?"

"Once or twice. It depends where you are in Morrowind, though, uh… these days, you can't count on finding much anything anywhere. I don't know. They're not supposed to be any bigger than horses, at least, ignoring the tentacles. These… these ones look a little larger than that."

As Ria looked closer, she realized, with a bit of a shock, that there was far more to these creatures than the purple parts. She'd figured there would be more, based on some of the surrounding silhouettes, but the purple was just their underbellies. They had whole big main bodies up there, and going by other animals for size, Ria might've likened these ones more to mammoths. She didn't like the feeling of this. If these creatures were any less harmless than Athis said… she wasn't sure if Selthrei would be enough.

But still, they made it to the edge of the crater just fine, and climbed on out onto the outer lip. The netches were only a couple hundred yards away, but they weren't approaching. They were just drifting along to the left, towards some pond or other. It was barely visible, in this early moonlight.

The four Companions sat down where they were, and stayed there for a couple minutes, silently watching the netches pass on by. It made no sense for them to be here. Ria understood that just fine. But she was getting used to a lot of things not making sense. Right now, this was nothing more than a soothing sight.

Then a sabre cat leapt out from the rocks in the distance, and lunged at the lead netch's tentacles. It moved so quickly, Ria barely had time to recognize it.

The netch responded by lazily curling one tentacle back, then flicking it forwards and swatting the sabre cat away like a bug. Ria could only watch as the sabre cat's now-lifeless body flew off into the sky, tumbling end over end until it landed somewhere out of sight.

And then the big floating beast was right back to normal.

"Talos be damned," Erik breathed. "Did I just see that?"

"I, I, I… I think you did," Athis managed to get out.

Ria just shook her head. "No one back at Jorrvaskr is going to believe this."


	40. Thorald 7

Middas, 9:35 AM, 48th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Blackreach

"So, Thorald. What do you think?"

Zaryth's voice barely registered for him. He was too busy staring.

They were about three-quarters of a mile outside the Silent City. There wasn't really anything out here. No roads, no buildings, no mines, no gardens. The sun-orb was barely visible in the fog. Even the shuttle cables were a fair way behind them.

It was a mushroom. A single, gigantic mushroom, glowing bright blue, with a dark metallic cap adorned by an outer ring of massive hanging tendrils. These mushrooms usually had stalks no wider than tree trunks of the same size, as well as hollow, canopy-like caps. But this one was different. Its stalk was nearly as thick as an Imperial guard tower, and its cap was solid and gently arched on its underside. More than that, it even had a few smaller caps branching off the sides of the tower, just as solid and sturdy as the huge one above, with hanging tendrils of their own. It all looked like it was half-mushroom and half-fortress.

This was reinforced by the fact that the base of the stalk had a dwarven metal door set in it. There was even a living glowing stairway connecting to it from the ground, in case it wasn't obvious enough.

Eventually, he asked, "Do you have a name for it?"

"Well, I've identified this species in general as the blacksight mushroom, this particular specimen being of the branched giant variety. I'm thinking it should be known as Tel Varlais. That would be the Telvanni naming convention for a tower such as this."

"What does it translate to?"

"It's the Tower of Stars. Fitting, I think, seeing as it's beneath them all the time." Zaryth pointed straight up at the ceiling above. As always, it was adorned with a glittering expanse of tiny blue dots. "But still. What do you think?"

Thorald beamed at her. Honestly, she was the only thing down here worth looking away from this tower for. "It's beautiful," he said. "I knew you were a good mage, but… just… I can't believe this. How did you even do it?"

"Well, I'd been working on it here and there ever since I first started down here. It simply took a while to grow to completion, even with my magic speeding it along. But I couldn't possibly ask for a better place to grow a mushroom tower. It should go without saying at this point that Blackreach is an inherently magical place."

"Beyond the Aetherium ore everywhere, you mean?"

"Resulting in the Aetherium ore, actually. I've been studying this ever since I arrived here. What things are unique to Blackreach? Aetherium ore, for one. Crimson nirnroots are another. There are even soul gem ore veins. Do you know how many other places in the world have soul gems in the ground?"

Thorald shook his head.

"Zero." Zaryth paused for emphasis. "But in Blackreach, all three of these extraordinary things are not only present, but actually abundant. And they share one thing in common: their connection to Aetherius. Aetherium is simply Aetherial matter in physical form, nirnroots are living conduits to Aetherius, and soul gems' entire function is to preserve the Aetherial energy of a living being. We're living in the most magically potent location in Tamriel." Then she pointed to her tower. "This is just the latest privilege it's offered us."

"Don't forget that you did a lot of this yourself," Thorald said. "This is a lot of work."

The Dunmer chuckled in response, a little self-consciously. "Well… yes, there's that too. But this is just my new living space."

When she said that, something occurred to Thorald. He should've thought of this a lot sooner, but he'd been too curious about what Zaryth was leading him out of the city to come see. Thanks to the fog hiding anything very far outside the city, he hadn't even seen the tower while it was still growing. This entire thing had been a surprise. So he hadn't had any time before now to think of this: "You're moving pretty far outside the city, aren't you?"

"It's less than a mile, I believe. But… yes. Keep in mind, when I first started growing this, I, uh… I'm not sure how to put this. I didn't have such high hopes for everyone's company down here." Zaryth gave him a guilty-looking glance. "I mean, uh…"

Thorald gave her a reassuring hug with his nearer arm. "It's all right. I get it. Here, can you show me the inside?"

"Oh, uh… sure. And if it's a problem for anyone, accessing me, I'll just, uh… build a little version of the shuttle, or something. Your workers already rebuilt the full-sized one for Alftand just fine." With that perfectly normal and unremarkable suggestion, Zaryth freed herself from Thorald's arm, only to switch to leading him by the hand to her tower's doorway.

The doors were set in a little alcove in the side of the stalk. The surface around them—so the inside of the stalk itself—had that dark, grayish metallic sort of luster these mushrooms had for their less-glowing parts, which went nicely with the dwarven metal. There was a plain rectangle of the same metal set in the wall by the doors. Thorald was pretty sure he recognized the thing.

As they came up the stairs, he pointed at the rectangle with his free hand. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Probably," Zaryth shrugged, before coming up to it and putting her own free hand flat on its surface. Behind the doors, some big unseen metallic objects turned and ground along, then clicked heavily into place. Then she fished a key out of her robes, slotted it in the door lock, and opened the way inside. She stood aside to let Thorald in first.

It turned out that 'inside' was just a little circular room. The floor and walls were that same dark metallic stuff, not overly glowing. But the ceiling was nowhere in sight. The walls just went up, and up, and up. Within them was a cascading, ethereal-looking column of sparkling blue light, rising upwards from a big green glass disc set into the floor. It was too cloudy to really see through, but there was something glowing bright blue beneath.

"Quite the lock you have there," Thorald said, before he could forget to comment on that. He was already walking in farther. And when he looked up now, he was treated to a truly dizzying sight. The ceiling was so high up there! It was practically just a dot, softly glowing blue in the middle of all the dark silvery gray. On the way, the walls had a couple jutting shelves, with narrow, oval-shaped doorways above them. But they didn't even have railings. There was nothing in here but the column of light and the exits it led to.

This wasn't a room, it was a lift shaft. A lift shaft inside a mushroom stalk. That was all this was. It just had a magical effect going instead of a mechanical platform.

For some reason, he'd thought there would be stairs. Like out front, leading up to the door. He probably shouldn't have expected a fancy Telvanni mage to use those when there was magic to do it faster.

"Well, we are quite far outside the Silent City," Zaryth said. "And if J'zargo's laboratory can come under attack, I'm not taking any chances with my own."

Right, the lock thing. Thorald had already forgotten about that. "How do you use this lift?"

"It's just a constant levitation effect, essentially. Powered by a meteoric glass assembly, not unlike an Ayleid well. You just step onto it, like this." Then the Dunmer came past him and walked right onto the glass disc, within the column of light. She immediately began rising gracefully through the air. Thorald was treated to a fantastic view of the soles of her boots as she went on up. It looked like a smooth sort of travel. Faster than stairs, that was for sure.

Once Zaryth had disappeared past the top of the shaft, Thorald stepped onto the disc himself—and instantly turned weightless. It was a strange sensation. He felt a very distinct lurch in his chest, like if he were dropping off a great height, except that he wasn't dropping. He was just floating upwards. The doorways in the walls came down into view for a split second each, just long enough for him to see smooth, sloping walkways going up to places he couldn't see. Then, just a moment later, he was coming up to the very top.

The column of light neatly deposited him forward onto a jutting platform. He was in the center of a spacious dome-shaped room. The floor was the same metallic surface as always, but the ceiling—or the top of it, at least, it sort of faded out towards the sides—was glowing bright blue. This was the inside of the cap.

It was full of important-looking things. The entire perimeter of the room was occupied by a continuous shelf, grown right into the shape of the mushroom, with just a thin top layer of smooth fitted stone tiles. Some of the things on top, he recognized from the old laboratory. The alchemy and enchanting setups were there, along with whole big metal racks filled with ingredients and supplies. A metal basin was set in the counter with spigots above for running water. The silver liquid stuff was there too, but in a much bigger glass-sided bowl, reinforced with a dwarven metal frame. A dwarven spider was sitting on its own section of the shelf, half-disassembled, surrounded by little metal bits. Despite all this, a lot of the shelves were still empty, though Thorald was sure that would be fixed soon enough. Zaryth hadn't had long to settle in yet.

And while the ceiling itself was glowing a fair bit, most of the room was actually lit up by a ring of magelight orbs, floating just by the walls, hidden behind dwarven metal half-cones. He couldn't actually see the orbs, just the triangles of cold white light they were throwing onto the walls above. That was nice. It made them a lot easier on the eyes.

Zaryth was standing right by him. She asked, "What do you think?"

"This is…" Thorald laughed out loud. He couldn't hold it back. His words were failing him a little bit. "I… I can't believe this. I mean, I can, but I can't believe you made all this. You'd better be proud."

"Thank you." The Dunmer smiled, almost sort of shyly. This was all a little odd of her. Usually, she took these compliments more in stride. "I think this is where I'll be working from now on. For the foreseeable future, I mean."

Actually, that did make Thorald think of something. "Where do you sleep?"

"One of the sub-levels. The lower one. That's also where I keep my books, now. The lower one has bathing facilities."

"Bathing facilities," he repeated blankly. Actually, that shouldn't have surprised him. There'd been that basin earlier.

Zaryth nodded. "I had the workers mimic-machine some pipe segments, and run them through the ground. It was a real challenge, integrating that into the structure of the tower. I had to grow the stalk _around_ the pipes. But it did work in the end."

Thorald was still stuck back at the part where he couldn't believe this. Of course, he had to remind himself that things in his life were always able to become stranger. And he should have been able to remind himself of that more easily.

Lately, things had been really, really getting out of hand. Even after everything he'd been through, he didn't know how to handle the things he was hearing.

New reports of magical incidents were coming in practically every day. The red draugr were everywhere. Shooting stars were coming down like raindrops. There were giant netches in Eastmarch. Iseus was waging some kind of magical war in the stars. Alduin had somehow come back to life. Today was the 48th of Second Seed. The 48th! That was supposed to be completely impossible. The world was going out of control in ways he didn't even understand.

Even Blackreach itself wasn't safe anymore. The other week, J'zargo's nirnroot garden had exploded. All of those lovely ear-splitting plants back there were just gone. And on the side, they'd created a Dwemer ghost-spewing portal in their place. The account of it reminded Thorald of his encounter with the Dremora in Solitude. Fortunately, Zaryth had been there to help hold the line until Savos Aren could arrive, or the lost nirnroots would've been the least of their problems.

Zaryth asked, "Are you all right?"

"Oh, uh…" Thorald realized he'd gone silent for a little bit there. He nodded. "I was just thinking. You, uh… I was thinking about what happened by J'zargo's laboratory. You did some really great things that day, didn't you?"

That might not have come across as a compliment. Zaryth sighed and gave him a sour look. "I really wish people would stop talking about it like that. That might work for you, but I'm not that eager to die."

"That's what I keep telling people about myself," he chuckled. "I'm not eager to lose you, either. But you seem to be able to look after yourself well enough."

Zaryth opened her mouth to reply, but then stopped. She was looking over Thorald's shoulder, at something behind him. Or someone. Coming up the lift, into the room. Thorald turned and looked over his shoulder.

It was Lenve. He'd just landed on the platform, and predictably enough, was staring speechlessly at the room around him. Pretty much the same reaction Thorald had had himself.

After a few seconds of that, Zaryth cleared her throat. "May we help you?"

The Bosmer focused on the two of them, then on Thorald in particular. "This is quite the tower you have here. I'm here on business, though. Uh… Thorald? The Jarl wants to see you. He's in his hall."

Thorald paused. "… That's it?"

"Yes." Lenve nodded. "Had to get the word to you somehow. It's rather urgent."

"Did you follow me out here?"

"Your squadmates told me Zaryth had taken you this way. I… didn't expect the tower."

"I see you got past the life sensor all right," Zaryth commented dryly.

"I'd hope so," Lenve said. "Now, I can leave now if you need more time, if that's, uh…"

Thorald gave Zaryth a brief glance. She replied with a shrug.

"I can go now," Thorald nodded. "Best not to keep the Jarl waiting. He doesn't like when people do that. I'll… I'll try and get back here soon. This tower really is beautiful. I'm looking forward to seeing more of it. And, uh—"

Zaryth gave him a nudge in the direction of the lift. "It's all right. Go see the Jarl."

Lenve was already heading back down. Thorald gave Zaryth a quick kiss, then followed down himself without a word. All he had to do was walk right off the platform—which he made a point not to think too hard about, considering the height of the drop below him—and the column guided him the rest of the way.

As the two of them exited into the cavern outside, Thorald asked, "Any idea what this is about?"

"I don't have a complete picture, no," the Bosmer shook his head. "I think politics might be involved. These days, I try not to get very deep into that sort of thing."

Thorald frowned. He wasn't exactly a master of politics himself. But he was thinking back to that mission some weeks back, where he and his squadmates had escorted Jarl Noster into Winterhold. Where Jarl Korir had flatly denied that Noster was the Jarl of anything at all, and demanded him to turn over his control of Alftand. That had gone nowhere at all. No one had changed their minds about anything, or even done anything new, after that meeting.

Except that now, Jarl Noster was asking for Thorald's help once again. Chances were, Thorald was about to get into a conversation he wouldn't enjoy in the slightest.

He walked alongside Lenve in silence all the way to the debate hall. It was another peaceful morning in Blackreach. A few Black Gears were out and about, but he didn't pay them very much attention. He was busy wondering how he was supposed to be any use to the Jarl for this.

As usual, the debate hall courtyard was empty. Lenve and Thorald walked into the Jarl's throne room side by side. And as usual, the throne room was _almost_ empty. Jarl Noster was seated at the far end of the room, and his housecarl was standing at the near end.

Lenve strode across the room to get back to the papers at his desk. Thorald walked down the short staircase after him at a careful, almost leisurely pace. He wasn't really in a hurry to get this meeting started.

After he realized he was stalling pointlessly, he sighed and closed the rest of the distance at more of a normal walking speed. He stopped at speaking distance and asked, "What can I do for you?"

"We have a problem," Noster said. He was definitely not looking thrilled. In fact, he looked sort of worn down in general. If it weren't for the circlet on his head, he would've had the appearance of just another tired worker in Blackreach Hold, struggling with their daily job. Which was probably how he thought of himself anyway, so that fit.

In any case, he was pausing after that first remark. Thorald put his hands on his hips. He was just going to wait for the rest.

"A while ago, a Khajiit worker up in Alftand ran off with a bunch of machinery. I sent a warning out to Winterhold, Dawnstar and Windhelm. And we did end up catching her, thankfully. She was trying to sell the machinery to a caravan outside Windhelm. The local guards held onto her until ours could come fetch her. So that all went smoothly."

This obviously wasn't the end of the story, so Thorald stayed quiet. He definitely hadn't heard about the Khajiit thief, though. That was unfortunate. They had a bad enough reputation without someone ruining their standing in Alftand too.

Sure enough, Noster continued. "But we did send warning to more cities than just Windhelm. One of our couriers went to Dawnstar. And while he was there, he spoke with Jarl Skald, and found out something very strange. Apparently, they'd been attacked by some of the red draugr recently, right in the city. And one of the draugr had been carrying a very particular bright blue mineral shard. Now, our courier didn't know what it was, but we obviously do."

That was it. Thorald didn't need to be told the rest. He filled it in himself. "Jarl Skald isn't handing over the shard, is he?"

"No. He's not." Noster folded his arms. "In fact, he's specifically keeping it out of our hands. Because guess what? Not everyone trusts us."

Thorald groaned. "That gods-damn idiot. He's getting in the way of us saving the world. Why would he even say he has the shard, if he's not planning on giving it to us?"

"Well, if he plans to hold onto it forever, that's really the best way to go about it. If he tried to keep it a secret, we might be able to steal it and he'd be left with no proof. If everyone knows he has it, and it goes missing, we'll be the first to blame. And we really can't afford to be known for stealing sensitive things from other jarls. People are refusing to recognize my title enough as it is."

This was a mess. Thorald had heard about the issue with the fourth shard, but he'd expected that once they'd found it, that'd be that. But no, now they'd just traded one obstacle for another. He had to wonder if Alduin had done this on purpose. If they tried to steal the shard now, it'd probably result in all these political tensions exploding into an all-out civil war. As in, a second one. And that would doom Skyrim just as thoroughly as the Shadow Unending itself.

"What are we… what are we going to do?"

"I don't know, exactly. I want you to go to Solitude and talk to General Tullius about this. Private audience, closed doors. I think I'm going to need the help of someone bigger than me to get this done."

Something occurred to Thorald suddenly. "This is what Jarl Korir wanted. He wanted you going to the Empire for support."

"He did. But he doesn't know about this. Neither will Jarl Skald. Hopefully, neither will Jarl Elisif, unless she has to. Just keep it between yourself and Tullius."

"Why me? Why not you? You're the Jarl."

"Tullius likes you more," Noster shrugged. "Just talk to the man, would you?"

"I'll let you know how it goes." There wasn't much more to say than that, so Thorald showed himself out. He had a stop to make before he could get to the propylon building.

That stop was to the living quarters. It was very quick. He just needed to pick up his armor before he went out there. After spending the whole morning out of it, the weight was some strange mix of comforting and stifling. It just felt familiar.

From there, it was a short walk to the propylon building. No one was there at the moment. To get in, Thorald had to pass through all the new security measures—namely, a double-doorway enclosure with the same obstacles and scanners as for the Alftand lift exit. This was a new construction. But just having an index wasn't good enough to let someone into Blackreach. Thorald passed through into the column room without really thinking about it.

Because of how the enclosure jutted into the room, it was left in a sort of C shape, with the propylon columns ringing its outer wall. There were nine of them in here, three to a wall, though at the moment the majority of them weren't working. Still, Thorald only needed the one marked for Solitude. And that was right in front of him.

He'd used these only once before, just as a test to make sure that he could do it. As he took out his little metal index and laid a hand atop the column, he found himself still feeling like he had no idea what he was doing.

Not that he had to. The moment his hand touched the engraved pyramid, his whole field of vision was filled with bright white light, and then the air around him suddenly turned cool.

He was inside Castle Dour. In the same room as the map table, in fact. General Tullius was standing over it and looking very unhappy. A few guards were standing around and watching. It was interesting, Thorald thought, seeing them all again. He hadn't been here since the incident with Morokei. For the most part, everything (and everyone) looked the same as he remembered.

The only new thing, besides this column in the corner of the room, was another Black Gear, sitting nearby with her helmet in her lap. Thorald didn't actually recognize her. She was some Nord woman he didn't know the name of. Her pauldrons read 5 · 2, which meant she was in one of the squads that had replaced the casualties of Estormo's sabotage. That must have been rather strange for her.

In any case, the moment he appeared, everyone's eyes went to him. Not much of a surprise there. He _had_ just teleported in. He looked around the room silently, nodded to his fellow Black Gear—she nodded back—and then walked slowly up to the map table.

It took a moment for General Tullius to say anything. His eyes went to the numbers on Thorald's own pauldrons, then lit up in recognition. "Thorald," he said, not bothering to hide his surprise. "Welcome back to Castle Dour."

"Thanks." Thorald pulled his helmet off and held it against his side. That was better. He could look at Tullius' perpetually-unhappy face much more clearly now. "Unfortunately, I'm here on business, not pleasure. But it is good to be back."

Tullius nodded. "Well, then, let's not waste time. What do you need?"

"Private audience with you, to start," he replied, without missing a beat.

That made Tullius hesitate for a second. But then he nodded again, and stepped back from the table. "Very well. Follow me."

The path through Castle Dour's interior was a little confusing. Thorald had never really explored this place very much, even during that brief little time right after Northwatch when he'd actually been _living_ here. But Tullius led him out of the map room and up some stairs, through some dark stone corridors, up some more stairs, and into a room he'd definitely never been to before.

It was fairly modest, as rooms went. There was a desk with some papers on it, a dresser, a single bed in the corner, a narrow window looking down on the courtyard, and a variety of Imperial-looking things around the walls. There was also a chair in front of the desk, which Tullius gestured for Thorald to sit in—but not before locking the door behind them.

"It's good to be back," Thorald sighed as he sat down. "I thought the world was going crazy the _last_ time I was here."

"Mm, you and me both, soldier," Tullius muttered. He circled around the desk to sit down opposite him. Then, once they were both seated, he paused and squinted at the Nord, sort of inquisitively. "… I never did you bring you in here, did I?"

"You have a nice room," he replied mildly.

Tullius exhaled sharply. "It does what it's meant to. But let's not waste time. You did say you were here on business, did you not?"

"I did. So here's the situation."

With that, Thorald launched into an explanation of… well, just about everything to do with this. First, the Aetherium, and the Dragonborn's plans for an Aetherial Lock, and the hunt for the Aetherium shards. Then, the political troubles with Noster's legitimacy, particularly that one unpleasant meeting in Winterhold with Jarl Korir. Then, the discovery that the last Aetherium shard was in—of all places—Dawnstar. As he spoke about it, Thorald realized he hadn't been to Dawnstar ever since his very first journey to Alftand. He wondered how they were doing over there, these days.

As he spoke, the general's frown deepened more and more. None of this was good news. But by his reaction, basically all of it was news of _some_ kind, which wasn't very encouraging either.

Eventually, Thorald concluded with: "So here I am, on Jarl Noster's behalf, reporting it all to you. If we can call Noster that."

"I know Noster," Tullius replied, apparently setting the rest aside for now. "He's a good man. I'm glad he found such a calling. The streets of Solitude are no place for a veteran to live."

That was right. Noster had been a beggar here, once. And he'd been a legionnaire before that. Now Thorald was frowning. "Why did you leave him out there like that, then?"

Tullius sighed wearily and leaned back in his seat. For a moment there, his composure as an Imperial general slipped away, and he just looked like a tired old man. That was striking. But the moment passed quickly enough. "It was… one of those political situations, essentially. Our policy is that once you're in the Legion, you're in it for life. One of the exceptions to that rule is if you desert. Noster was never formally discharged from his service. He simply disappeared during the Great War, and reappeared in Solitude afterwards. If we had any proof that he'd deserted, he might have faced imprisonment for it. But we had no proof that he hadn't, either, which left my hands tied. They often are, with matters around here."

"Like with the Aetherium thing?"

The change in subject seemed to be welcome. The general jumped right on it. "Certainly, the value of Aetherium isn't in question. The Aetherium ore you've provided Solitude has been distributed throughout the city, and we haven't had a single incident since. And while I have no doubt that these refined shards of Aetherium would be similarly effective, the fact remains that Jarl Skald is no greater or lesser an authority than any other jarl in Skyrim. He can't be ordered to relinquish anything in his possession. And I'm sure you're aware of what will happen if we try to take it by force."

"I don't even know if Skyrim has enough manpower to wage another civil war," Thorald remarked idly. He hadn't exactly seen a whole lot of soldiers garrisoned in the castle on the way here.

Tullius shrugged. "Most likely not. You may not be aware of this, but despite the Thalmor being driven out of Skyrim, their forces are still strong in Cyrodiil. I would have requested the intervention of the Black Machine by now, except that this Shadow Unending is in the way. Needless to say, if your Aetherium business can put an end to this, it is very much in the Empire's interests to aid you."

That wasn't a surprise to hear. Someday, the Black Machine would go to Cyrodiil, and it would be fantastic. But they were stuck here for now, and that meant the Legion was stuck in Cyrodiil too. It all felt like a pretty big mess. "So how can we get Jarl Skald to cooperate?"

"The easiest way would be to put someone in a position to order him to turn it over," Tullius replied. "Not the Emperor. That would cause too much political trouble. Now, Jarl Elisif has been interested for some time in convening the Moot to appoint a new ruler of Skyrim, but at this point, we're no longer confident that she'll pass the majority to become High Queen. In fact, it's because of that that she has delayed on the Moot for so long."

"No?" Thorald raised his eyebrows. "Who will, then?"

"I couldn't say. But at least five jarls need to vote for one ruler, or no decision will be made. Elisif can be counted on to vote for herself—because they can, in fact, do that—and Jarls Balgruuf, Idgrod and Siddgeir are known to support the Empire as well. Jarls Laila, Brunwulf, Skald and Korir are in charge of former Stormcloak holds, so if they'd prefer one of their own to rule Skyrim, they have enough votes to tie with us."

A tie. That shouldn't have been possible. Tullius had just listed Solitude, Whiterun, Morthal and Falkreath on Elisif's side; and Riften, Windhelm, Dawnstar and Winterhold on the opposition's side. That was a total of eight capital cities. One was missing.

"Markarth," Thorald said.

"Our latest political catastrophe," Tullius replied grimly. "The late Jarl Igmund was a supporter of the Empire, but he was killed during the Thalmor occupation. When we liberated the city, we faced the possibility of open rebellion if we appointed a jarl of our own choosing, so we were forced to leave it to the residents of Markarth to decide. Their choice was some Nord fellow named Ogmund. Apparently, he's a man with no political experience, whom they picked because he's good at giving a voice to their needs and wants. If I'm not mistaken, he was a _bard_ before the occupation took place."

Whoever this man was, Thorald had never heard of him. He shook his head slowly. "That's just great. … So, I'm guessing he's not so thrilled with the Empire."

"He accused us of abandoning Markarth when the Thalmor came in, among other things. It was all very colorful." Tullius paused. "Not helping matters is that the Empire already made an arrangement with one of the Dunmer noble houses to repopulate the Reach. The ash is useless for what used to grow there, I'm told, but ideal for Morrowind's crops. It's an opportunity for the Empire to benefit from new tax revenue, so of course we've been eager as can be."

"Oh. Which house?" Thorald wondered if it'd be House Telvanni. He knew that one.

"House Hlaalu, if I'm not mistaken. I wasn't part of the dealings. Still, Jarl Ogmund—" Tullius winced and turned his head aside for a moment— "I can't believe I'm actually calling him that now… _Jarl_ Ogmund doesn't appreciate that we made that decision without his input. Never mind that we made it before he was made Jarl. Or that the ash would be useless without House Hlaalu's assistance. The Empire is treading upon his precious Nordic freedom once again, or so the story goes."

"So… we've replaced a Jarl Igmund with a Jarl Ogmund."

Tullius grunted in annoyance. "If you have a problem with Nord naming conventions, Thorald, take it to someone else. All I do is work here."

"But we're not counting on him backing Elisif."

"Unfortunately not. As I said, my hands are tied. I'll do what I can, but I wouldn't expect Jarl Skald to give up that shard peacefully anytime soon."

Thorald was starting to get a feel for what Tullius meant about having his hands tied. In Blackreach, nobody really disagreed with each other enough for problems like this to come up. Zaryth had created Tel Varlais with no opposition from anyone. The Black Machine operated with no real internal conflict at all. But the rest of the world wasn't so carefully designed.

Here was the real fight. All of the mighty epic power of the world's greatest heroes was little use when people couldn't even agree with each other on what to do.

After a few seconds, he said, "I'm not sure what _I'm_ supposed to do anymore."

Tullius leaned forwards in his seat and fixed Thorald with an appraising look. "You may not be aware of this, but you're not the only person I have this sort of conversation with. It's common knowledge that Castle Dour is compromised for intelligence. The Thalmor have been planting spies here since even before the First War with the Dominion. Intelligence that goes through the proper channels always ends up finding its way into enemy hands. The end result is that my own trusted agents are, for the most part, outside the official Imperial chain of command."

Thorald waited silently. He wasn't sure where Tullius was going with this. But he was fairly sure he'd just been called a trusted agent. That was really rather flattering, coming from this man.

Actually, with all that in mind, it was definitely good that Thorald asked for a private audience before he'd started talking about the Aetherium stuff. He'd considered it to be just a good precaution. But for all they knew, even the guards in the map room had Thalmor informants in their ranks.

The Imperial continued. "You, Thorald, are free to do more than any soldier I've ever known. The last time you were here, you saved the entire population of Solitude. Today, you delivered information that may turn out to be strategically invaluable for the survival of Skyrim, and possibly the entire Empire. In neither of these cases were your actions by my own orders. I've learned to coexist with forces such as yourself. Feel free to return to Blackreach at your leisure. We'll send one of your fellow Black Gears back with any other messages as needed."

At least he sounded comfortable enough with the term 'Black Gears'. Maybe having one of them in his map room had gotten him used to it by now.

But that really was quite the statement, especially in light of Thorald's own news today. He knew already that his work was important. That went without saying. But here was a man—a powerful officer in the Imperial Legion, and the undisputed commander of its operations in Skyrim—telling him that his greatest strength was his freedom from the Legion's ranks. That said something very unfortunate about what the Legion's ranks were like.

Every time he left Blackreach, he was reminded of how much more of a challenge the world outside was. He didn't want to forget this.

"Thank you," he said. "I'd best be going, then."

Tullius rose silently from his seat, headed over to the door, and unlocked and opened it. He even held it open for Thorald to go first, which was polite of him, though Thorald had an interesting time trying to backtrack through the hallways with the general _behind_ him. He hoped he wasn't going somewhere completely wrong.

But soon enough, they'd emerged into the map room once again. The guards were all standing around in here, as before. That one Black Gear, the Nord woman whose name he didn't know, had moved over to the map table, and was now poring over it intently.

Thorald looked around the room and asked, "What _is_ so interesting about that map?"

The Black Gear glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. "Uh… I don't know. It's really detailed."

"It has every location on it that our mapmakers could think to mark," said Tullius, as he strode over and resumed his contemplative position over the table, opposite the Black Gear. "And whenever there's a strategic situation at hand in Skyrim, some part of it is relevant."

"You could try putting the locations of the shooting star landings on it," the Black Gear suggested brightly.

Thorald chuckled. "You wouldn't be able to see any of the actual map. Uh… All right, you two have fun with that. I'll be around."

As he walked up to the column and got his index ready, he overheard Tullius saying, "That may be a valid idea, Renthe. If we could compile the affected locations into a single, cohesive list—"

His palm was already on the pyramid. The white flash took him, and he was in Blackreach once again.

Thorald laid his forehead in his hand for a couple seconds. Imperials.

But then he was heading back out into the cavern, his helmet still in hand. That had been an enlightening trip just now. In fact, it'd probably gone about as well as he could've hoped for. Now he was ready to resume his day. First, he'd want to go tell Jarl Noster how it went. Then he'd want to find Zaryth again and spend some time with her before his day's training began.

As he walked down the road towards the debate hall, something else occurred to him. It wasn't a realization, exactly, so much as a desire. When his day's work was done, he was going to want to go back to Solitude. And he wasn't going to bring his Black Machine armor. No business this time. He just wanted to go and see what Solitude was like these days.

Maybe Zaryth would like to come along for it. This could be a fun evening.


	41. Logrolf 6

Loredas, 8:33 PM, 51st of Second Seed, 4E 202

Hidden Location

Alduin had been having a good time lately.

It wasn't perfect, of course. Many of his efforts were being blocked. One of Skyrim's meager warriors had received a tremendous gift from Shor, right in the midst of being overwhelmed by a great number of Alduin's draugr. He was continually amazed by these mortals' capacity to cheat at the fights they got into.

But the draugr were, and had always been, no more than a diversion. The real work was in his conduit's effects on the world. It seemed that the mortals' intended response to that was to start gathering pieces of the blinding blue material known as Aetherium. And he couldn't have possibly asked for a better solution to that problem.

Needless to say, ever since merging with himself once again, Alduin had been learning a few things about the world. He doubted he could ever truly erase the mortal fragment in his identity, but now it was no more than a tool with which to better manipulate this world. These past days had been most enlightening in that way.

After he had retrieved the Aetherium shard from Arkngthamz—a task that he could only have done through the draugr, since his own eyes failed to see anywhere nearby—he had deliberated at some length on what to do with it. By nature, the Aetherium could not be destroyed. He might have liked to bury it in some nameless corner of the wilderness, or perhaps conceal it in the aura of some greater source of magic, but he did not underestimate the mortals' ability to discover any hiding place he could produce for it. Hiding the conduit was labor enough, and in that case, the mortals did not even know to look for it.

And so, bearing that in mind, he had sent ten of his draugr north, far north, to the opposite end of Skyrim, with the shard in their possession. The journey upon which they had embarked had been both demanding and dangerous, but under his control, the draugr had followed their path well. Alduin had guided them northwards out of the lifeless solace of the Reach, into the plains of Skyrim's center, then northeast into the snow-topped trees of the Pale—day after day, without rest, without pause. It had been imperative that they would move quickly, for every day that they traveled with this shard was a day that it might have fallen into the wrong hands.

Then they had found their way onto a road leading to the northern city of Dawnstar, and proceeded to do as draugr like themselves were meant to do—slaughter their way up its path. Granted, it was such a desolate road that there was nearly nothing to slaughter but the odd wandering wolf. But after handily cutting down a few of the city's pathetic bucket-headed guards on patrol, his draugr had been met by a much greater force of the same. His draugr, as was inevitable for a group of their number, had lost.

Now, of course, he did hold one last draugr in reserve, to watch the events that followed. While he could not look at them directly, since the Aetherium shard blocked the vision of his conduit, he could still see it all through his draugr's eyes—and for some reason, the mortals were taking a terribly long time to adjust to the notion that perhaps these strange red-eyed draugr were capable of hiding and sneaking. So he had watched from the woods as the guards hauled the ancient corpses away for disposal, and as one of them stumbled upon the Aetherium shard clutched in one of the corpses' hands.

From there, the shard had been passed up into the city, and made its way into the hall of the Jarl. Alduin did not remember the man's name. It hardly mattered. What did matter was that Alduin understood him to—rightfully or not, it still mattered little—severely mistrust the greater powers of mortal politics. The Empire, the Dragonborn, the place called Blackreach Hold, these were all foreign and ugly terms for him. And those would be the powers to try to retrieve the Aetherium shard from him. He would refuse.

Hiding the shard would have been a fool's errand. The mortals would have inevitably found it, no matter how well-concealed or well-guarded he made it. But now, the work was out of his hands. It was rather beautiful, in an ironic, idiotic sort of way. The mortals' petty disagreements now held the shard more securely out of reach than anything of Alduin's own ever could.

It truly had been a pleasure to watch them leading one another to their world's end. Moments like this reminded him of why he planned on bringing that end upon them.

On a related note, however, he was troubled by this mention he had observed of a Blackreach Hold. He assumed that this was a place from which more Aetherium was being produced, at least in some lesser, cruder form. So far, he had seen only one hint to the place's location, and that was when some form of existing thread to Aetherius had been overwhelmed by the conduit, and created a strange, self-contradicting, seemingly recursive portal deep under the earth. It had lasted for only a few minutes, and Alduin had been able to see nothing around it. But if it had been surrounded by Aetherium, that would explain it well enough.

More worrying still was that some of the cities were being masked from his sight as well. Much of Dawnstar was masked, of course, by the Aetherium shard in it—but many of the great hold capitals were being steadily concealed in the blinding fog of magical neutrality. Blackreach Hold must have been sharing its treasure.

Very clever. He would expect no less from the mortals. They were all still going to die, of course, but now the anomalies would have to start from outside the cities. He would work with this.

In any case, this was no time to stand back and wait. As the world of Mundus continued to slowly unravel, it was being struck with unheard-of frequency by the objects known as shooting stars. For the most part, these were much less than noteworthy. But the conduit was not the only thing he expected would come of these. There was a far greater prize to pursue.

He doubted he would need any special apparatus to make use of it, when the time came. He had not for the conduit, either. But it was of great preference that he found it before the mortals did. And in truth, it was not entirely intentional of him to send this particular treasure down to Mundus. It was a logical consequence of a precarious absence in a turbulent time.

The next great sky-stone could be a gift, or it could be a curse. If it had been up to him, he would not have sent it to Mundus at all, for it directly furthered none of his plans. But if he _could_ use it… the effects of the conduit would be the least that the mortals had to fear from him. Either way, he could do no more than search these things where they landed, in hopes that they would yield what he was looking for.

So far, he had no luck. More than that, his draugr kept being killed whenever they went to these landing sites—not by the product of the landings, but by mortals investigating the same thing. He gladly took a few of them with the fallen draugr, of course, but it was an irritating expenditure. Especially because that one mortal with Shor's boon was at the forefront of much of it. Nothing was killing that one yet.

Perhaps he could put some slow-acting poison in her group's food supply. Oh, how loathsome and pathetic the mortal need for material sustenance was. It spoke volumes of how limited they were. Not that Alduin never ate anything himself, of course—but in his case, he settled for no less than the entire world. This was why the others in his echelon of being had so imaginatively named him World-Eater.

He hated names sometimes. Simply because this was his purpose in the cycle of existence—did nobody even pay attention to who he was? Clearly not. At this juncture, he was not eager to give them the chance.

After all, there were still those who were watching for him. The one he had identified as the golden mask—now, the one he understood to be the Dragonborn—had not ceased to search the expanse of Aetherius for the vital link of his conduit. Alduin had concealed it well, but this apparently invincible mortal reminded him that for as long as Mundus lasted, he could not rest easy.

For now, he needed only wait. But he would not rest. His enemies were not going to give him that luxury.

This pattern of waiting broke on an otherwise unremarkable day. Alduin's draugr had been toiling away in their various impact sites—focusing their energy to probe for magical auras beneath, or physically digging for things they had detected already. So far, they had had no luck. That was little surprise. There was no indication that these sites contained his desired bounty, beyond that they were impact sites. He was simply watching them, watching and waiting, when a foreign voice spoke to him.

"You vile thief. You have reached too far."

This came as a shock. Not the words themselves, but the origin of the voice. It was speaking through the conduit. Alduin's very first reaction was to scramble to make sure that his concealments were still in place. This being, whatever it was, could not have known his location. If it did, everything would be brought to a halt.

Alduin did not respond immediately. He gazed through the passage of the conduit—he had come to know this passage well, perhaps better than any material location, it disturbed him to see it used by this unknown entity now—and attempted to discern more. Perhaps that had not been the wisest decision, for what followed that.

The instant he looked into the conduit, he was bathed in a near-blinding light of divine radiance. Few, few beings had this power. Not even the Dragonborn, in all of his plane-razing glory, exuded such an aura.

But his vision soon sharpened, as he reasserted control over his conduit and its path, and he began to see more. He observed, for one matter, that the conduit's material location had not been detected. The presence was sending its message to anywhere that the conduit would detect it. So rather than respond from the conduit itself, Alduin quickly followed a thread to another location in Skyrim, then relayed back to Aetherius and made his reply from there.

This presence was one of a god, indeed. But it was not one he had to fear. It wielded no power against him. Not here, and not now. And as Alduin formulated his reply, he realized why this god was talking to him. It meant that the moment he had awaited was coming soon.

He said, "I know you. You're doing well enough for a dead person, aren't you?"

"You too, dragon-whelp," replied Shor.

Clever as always. Shor had always been the guardian of the Nord folk, long before they had known that name. And Alduin had been naturally opposed to him. It was to this end that he had sought out refuge—and eventually done battle with the Dragonborn—in Shor's own realm of Sovngarde.

But these thoughts did not extend to his reply. He said only, "This matter does not concern you. This is between Mundus and myself. The matters of Aetherius are not my pursuit."

"Yet those of Mundus are mine. You should know that much."

Shor was not being forthright. Alduin could sense that already. But he would play along for now.

"Are you here to persuade me to change my mind?"

"Your mind has already changed. You have merged with the being of a mortal. Your duty as the World-Eater is no longer of consequence."

Alduin would betray no expression through this means of communication. He could not, with so much of himself hidden. But he permitted himself a smile all the same—dragons did not smile, only mortals, though he cared little now. He had to acknowledge Shor's wit. Merging with Logrolf had been a messy affair, and it had left him a starkly different sort of being than before. But it was foolish of Shor to assume that Alduin's transformation would somehow cause him to lose sight of his mission. Even in his darkest moments, even at his most sundered, he knew that this world had to end.

Besides, from what he had gathered, Logrolf himself had been a ruthless seeker of power himself. He might have done well in the ranks of the dragon priests, during their time.

"You are already aware that the core of my being is unchanged," he answered smoothly. "My father did not cease to serve in his role when _he_ merged with a mortal."

That incident had happened just over two centuries ago, at what marked the beginning of the mortals' so-called Fourth Era. Alduin had taken upon himself to learn some of the history he had missed, in the great span of time between his banishment millennia ago and his return last year. It seemed that the late Daedric Prince Mehrunes Dagon had unleashed some great plan of conquest upon Mundus, and it had been stopped when Alduin's father Akatosh asserted his form through some humble mortal priest. It had struck him as a quaint story, but apparently it was true.

And perhaps it was relevant, in an odd, oblique way. Both Alduin and his father had, at critical junctures in their existences, merged with a mortal priest. An ordinary, insignificant servant of far greater powers. In Akatosh's case, the priest had chosen to serve him. In Alduin's own case, he had chosen to use the priest. It was the perfect example of how they differed. Alduin would not wait for service to come to him. He could take what he needed all his own.

This was why he was taking the time to educate himself in the world's history. His only goal in learning about it was to better understand how to instigate its end.

Shor said, "It matters not. You are doomed to failure. The world will survive, and you will fade, unless you learn to exist in it."

"An empty threat."

"A proclamation of truth. Your role as the World-Eater ended when the Dragonborn defeated you. I watched him do it, in my own sanctuary of Sovngarde."

"Your warriors were most filling." Alduin did have to admit that he was enjoying this a bit.

Shor ignored him pointedly. "Your success is no longer determined by the tides of doom that govern our world. Without this assurance, you are destined to fail."

Perhaps it was time to discard his pretenses. This conversation had persisted for longer than he would like, and there was the possibility that Shor was using it for some hidden purpose—to search for his conduit, for example. Alduin would not have his plans undone by an indulgently long conversation with the enemy. He would rather end this with some words to deter any more such encounters to come.

And so his reply was appropriately blunt. "Do you know what I think, Shor? I think you are desperate. You know what this course of events is doing to you. And you can't bear the thought of your power in my hands."

Alduin had learned many things of the history he had missed. One thing in particular was in regards to the fate of the Dwemer. They had vanished, every one of their people, in one instant, when one of their number had endeavored to tap into a source of power too great to control. Eventually, that source had been banished from Mundus, returned to what amounted to its intended home.

But now the conduit was drawing Aetherius down to Mundus in greater and greater force, and it was only a matter of time before that banishment would be undone.

Shor replied, "It will destroy you. You cannot control its power."

"Then why entrust your mortal champions with such a powerful weapon of your making? You _fear_ what will come next."

There was a reason why he had referred to Shor as a dead person, at the beginning of this conversation. Amusingly, rather few Nords seemed to be aware of this fact, but 'Shor' was not a guide all of their own, but simply their name for a vastly more overarching god. One who had sacrificed himself—his power, his active ability to control the world—for the goal of its creation. Races of men revered him for it, and races of mer reviled him for it. But it was he who had brought Mundus into existence as it was.

Shor was the Nordic interpretation of Lorkhan. Sovngarde, and all its relevant power, was of the life that their faith breathed into him. Beyond that, he remained the dead god of the world's beginning.

This alone would have been reason enough for their conversation now. Alduin did not imagine that Lorkhan was eager to see his world permanently thrown to pieces. But there was more than that.

This conversation had confirmed what Alduin had been waiting for. Certainly, Lorkhan had not intended for it to, but by making this warning, he betrayed that he had detected the original core of his power leaving him once again. And now he knew that Alduin knew. This was suitable enough. Alduin had no intention of speaking to this being in the future. They had no more words to exchange.

Perhaps this was finally a suitable distraction for the mortals after all. None of them would want to see what would happen if Alduin seized the power of the Heart of Lorkhan.

And it was coming down to Mundus once again. All he had to do was claim it before the mortals did.


	42. Aicantar 8

Morndas, 3:02 PM, 53rd of Second Seed, 4E 202

J'zargo's Field Laboratory

So things were getting a little messy now.

For starters, even though all the cities in Skyrim were protected by lots of Aetherium ore, that wasn't stopping things from being crazy outside. Shooting stars were falling pretty much everywhere. In just the past week, two of them had struck within ten miles of Alftand's surface structures. Apparently, one had even caused a minor avalanche, which was great.

Meanwhile, in Alftand itself, business was as strained as ever. That Khajiit thief had been caught, tried and imprisoned up in the frozen top level of the ruins, and that was satisfying for basically everyone. But they were up to about six hundred immigrants from Markarth, with more of them sure to come. Six hundred people from the most corrupt city in Skyrim, now in a city crammed with valuable artifacts. The guards had already arrested about a dozen of the newcomers for trying to steal things. One former merchant had actually tried to bribe his arrester into letting it go. He'd gone into his jail cell with a black eye.

Most of the previous residents of Alftand were not amused. Sarelle certainly wasn't, and she was as previous as they came. At this rate, they were going to have to start asking the Whiterun guards to immigrate in, just to balance out the crime rate.

Oh, and on top of that, as of the other day, there was an outbreak of bone break fever in the city. It wasn't even some kind of magical Shadow Unending-induced crisis. A lot of the people coming in from Markarth were just unwell. So far, fifty people had been infected and basically quarantined until the priests could set about treating them. Aicantar wasn't sure how safe he was in the company of everyone else.

Meanwhile, down here in Blackreach, J'zargo's nirnroot garden had somehow managed to obliterate itself. And spawn an army of ancient ghosts in its place. Aicantar had actually been inside the laboratory for that one. Fortunately, J'zargo himself had been there to save the day, along with that really accomplished Telvanni book author, Zaryth Velani. But the laboratory just wasn't the same, and Aicantar had been tied up a bunch with helping J'zargo try to keep working anyway.

The only upside to all of this was that so far, as much as Aicantar knew, nobody had died yet. At this rate, he was just waiting for someone's luck to run out. Which kind of eerily reminded him of how he'd felt about Markarth right before the Black Machine's attack. Maybe they'd do some big heroic thing to fix all of this, too.

Probably not. As it turned out, not every problem could be solved with swift and massive violence.

Today, Aicantar was working in J'zargo's laboratory, just like usual. The two of them were coordinating on some big batches of curative potions for the outbreak in Alftand. It turned out that no one had really prepared for dealing with any one disease in particular, so they were faced with a sudden need for medicines they had no stockpile of.

Fortunately, they did have alchemy reagents. Zaryth had seen to that. Apparently, she had some big new tower now, though Aicantar hadn't seen it. He just knew that she had a lot of alchemy reagents to offer, and some of those were useful for dealing with disease.

And that meant that the Altmer was on his knees in the middle of the floor, grinding up a bunch of strange, thick flaky red stuff in a big stone mortar and pestle. He was glad his clothing was so light, because he was working up a real sweat. He also was setting his muscles on fire and making his lungs hate him, but that was another matter.

Behind him, J'zargo's voice asked, "How are you faring?"

"It's mostly done, I think," Aicantar answered breathlessly. "You should be able to mix it with your chitin in a few minutes."

"No, that does not answer what Khajiit asked. How are you yourself faring, Aicantar?"

Honestly, he probably should've gone with that the first time. J'zargo had always shown an immaculately caring and considerate way of dealing with people. Forget being nice by the standards of a mage, he was nice by the standards of a _priest_. "Well, uh… I guess I'm sweaty," Aicantar laughed sheepishly. He was still going, too. "I'd shower down here, but… I mean, I didn't even bring a change of clothes. I guess I'll just do it later. When I'm back up in Alftand."

"Some hard physical work is a pleasant reprieve from the usual business of mages," J'zargo said, half-serenely, half-comfortingly. "In this one's opinion, it is an undervalued thing for us to practice."

"Yeah, don't you do, uh… an hour of training every day? Something like that?" Aicantar had heard about this, early on during his time here, but he'd never actually seen it. He presumed he was just here at the wrong time of day, and J'zargo had it down to some other routine.

The Khajiit replied, "Two."

"Oh." Now Aicantar felt a little self-conscious. He'd never been that much for physical labor and things of that sort. The most he'd ever had to do was lug around a few heavy pieces of Dwemer machinery for a couple minutes at a time. J'zargo here could probably run literal circles around him. "Maybe I should pick that up. Maybe, uh… I dunno about two hours, but…"

"It is commendable of you to consider. Much, this one thinks, would depend on your goal. If you wish only to improve your strength, or your stamina, there are plenty of techniques for it."

Now Aicantar wanted a stamina potion. He was a little embarrassed to ask for it.

J'zargo continued. "If you wish to put your fitness to use, that is another level of training. Learning the art of swordplay, for example, can be most difficult and time-consuming. To balance that with the life of a mage is no easy task."

"Speaking from experience, there?" The Altmer couldn't help but grin. Leather armor, ebony sword—as court wizards went, J'zargo wasn't exactly subtle about his other hobbies.

"No, the sword is simply for show. … Of course, Aicantar." How did J'zargo know he was thinking about the sword? Damn.

A little while went by in silence. The flakes were coming by all right. Aicantar still wasn't sure what these were. J'zargo hadn't said. He wasn't actually sure J'zargo knew either. He'd just put down the mortar and pestle here, and suggested Aicantar give it a try. So he kept working, and the minutes went by.

Once it was done, the Altmer set the mortar down and let out a big sigh. "All right. This is ready. Is the water?"

"As ever," J'zargo replied smoothly.

It was simple business to put the pestle up on the counter, and get its contents into the calcinator. It was all pretty wet. He was eager to get it over with.

Once it was in, he went over to the basin and rinsed his hands off. They were pretty sweaty and icky after all that. Actually, what they mainly felt was sore, just like his arms. As he cleaned himself off, though, he glanced over at J'zargo. The fellow was still busy at the alchemy station, his back turned to the rest of the room.

Aicantar walked up to him slowly. He was still getting his bearings after all that work. "So… J'zargo. I have a question. And I… I'm not sure how to say it without sounding bad."

It looked like the Khajiit had just finished whatever he was doing. He turned around in his seat to face Aicantar properly. "Yes?"

"… Do you get paid? Do you… do you receive wages? I know you work for the Jarl, that must pay well, right?"

Maybe he could've thought of a better question right then.

J'zargo took it in stride, anyway. He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, but in a strange sense. Much like Alftand, much of our payment comes simply in the form of living here. All of the things we need are provided with no charge. As for things we desire, the workers do receive a gold stipend. And the Black Machine may receive one also, now that other cities are more accessible. J'zargo technically receives the same, though with a great deal of extra gold from the sale of various products. Notably moonshock, as of late. But yes, J'zargo does get paid."

"No one's paid _me_ yet," Aicantar muttered.

"Truly?" J'zargo's eyebrows shot up. "That is quite the oversight. You worked long at Khajiit's side for the propylon development. That alone should have left you quite the sum. This may be because you live in Alftand, but work down here. No one else does this. Ask Lenve about it, and he should pay you appropriately."

Pay him. That was a thought. It was really a testament to the sheer wealth of Blackreach Hold that Aicantar had gone this entire time without even thinking about getting paid. He didn't actually know what he'd spend the money on. Back in Markarth, he'd had everything just sort of handed to him. This was going to be strange.

J'zargo added, "This one recommends saving it. Do not spend it. Your life here is such that you need not worry about the smaller purchases. Save it, and then one day you will be glad it was there to use."

"Huh. Good advice." Aicantar nodded slowly. "I guess a trip to the Silent City is in order. I might want to shower first. I'm a mess."

"Yes, well, these potions are partway done. How about this: When we are done for the day, you can bring the potions with you up to Alftand, and then the Silent City will await your arrival. Acceptable?"

"How much is there left to do?" Not that it affected whether he'd stay here and keep doing it. He just wanted to know.

"This batch, and then one more. So be prepared to refill your pestle."

The Altmer scratched at the back of his head. "Do… do _you_ know what those little flakes are? Because I don't."

"Uh…" J'zargo glanced downward. They had a whole sack of them just sitting there against the wall by the counter. "Zaryth said they were not native to Skyrim. House Hlaalu has been experimenting with finding crops that will grow in the Reach, and this must be one of those. It would have pleased J'zargo to learn to better work with it before putting it to the test, but the only other curative reagent we had much of was mudcrab chitin."

He glanced down again, where they had an even bigger sack of lumpy mudcrab bits next to the flaky stuff.

"That doesn't really tell me what it is," Aicantar said.

"J'zargo thinks it is some sort of lichen. Those will grow anywhere. Perhaps they may grow in Blackreach, if appropriately cultivated. Jarl Noster would surely prefer that over giving House Hlaalu our gold."

"Aren't you all extremely rich?"

"Only when we do not spend our gold on things."

Aicantar paused. "Hey, I just realized. These potions are going to be a lot weaker without the nirnroot garden, aren't they?"

The Khajiit frowned for a couple seconds, then just shrugged. "It is hard to say. Certainly, at this point, it is irrelevant. We are now, for the moment, simply on the same level as all other alchemists."

"Do you think you'll be able to replant it?"

"Oh, certainly. Blackreach is a vast place, filled with more crimson nirnroots than one could ever hope to track down. The nirnroot's life cycle only offers a brief window for reproduction, under very specific circumstances, where it produces a central flower—it looks like a smaller arrangement of the leaves, if you are curious. Upon doing this, it produces one or two seeds. But fortunately, the plant is perennial, so this may be done as many times as we need."

"One or two seeds?" Aicantar's eyes widened. "How in the world is that supposed to work?"

"And there you have the rarity of the nirnroot." J'zargo grinned. "The seeds are tiny, but light. Iseus showed me how to cultivate this plant. It is a beautiful thing to watch grow."

Once again, Aicantar was starting to feel a little in over his head. But then, he realized, that must have been how J'zargo felt too, around Zaryth. And it must have been how Zaryth had felt around the Dragonborn. There was probably someone, somewhere, about whom the Dragonborn felt the same. Talos, maybe. But everyone had something beyond their reach. For Aicantar, that would be this nirnroot stuff right now.

Not that this was a surprise. He'd seen the garden. And heard it. Repeatedly. But hearing it explained like this, he was getting a feel for just how much J'zargo had learned.

"So," the Khajiit continued. "In the absence of those wonderfully noisy plants to keep us company, let us do the best we can with these potions. Shall we?"

And so they did. There wasn't much left to do, at this point, but Aicantar joined right along for it. They had a whole crate of little earthen vials they were filling with this stuff. By the time they'd gotten through the red plant flakes—they ran out before the mudcrab chitin—about a hundred vials had been filled, with a dozen more just sitting and waiting on the counter.

J'zargo helped him pack the vials in with some straw, and bind the crate with some rope. It was like they'd gotten it down to a systematic routine, except that this was the first time they were doing it. And Aicantar didn't mind that. They were bringing a big haul of alchemy products up to Alftand to help deal with diseases—right as a disease outbreak was unfolding. Not exactly something to make a habit of.

The crate wasn't too overly heavy, but after everything today, the Altmer's arms just couldn't take it. He had to give in and ask for a stamina potion for this part. Which, fortunately, J'zargo had in stock, because every alchemist had stamina potions. The crate was very nice and manageable after that.

The doors to the lift hallway were dented, and couldn't close anymore. Apparently, that was from the big incident with the nirnroots. And Aicantar, at this moment, got as far as the door's front platform before another strange thing happened.

He saw it out of the corner of his eye. Movement, off to his right. It was the other exit down here—the one for the Great Lift. Its barred doors were swinging open. And Kamian, the giant warrior in the ebony armor, was stepping out. Aicantar couldn't believe what came out after him.

They were legionnaires. Imperial legionnaires, wearing their signature steel-reinforced leather armor. Aicantar counted ten of them. They were just walking two by two behind Kamian, staring in awe at the cavern around them.

Aicantar didn't know what he was looking at, but he didn't want to bother Kamian right then. It was probably wiser to move on like normal. So he just went right along to the lift, and very gratefully put his crate down on the cabin floor.

It was strange to think that this little crate might make such a huge difference in dealing with the disease going on. It was even stranger to think that he'd had a hand in making it. But then, he'd also helped with Skyrim's new teleportation network by attuning some rods of metal practically the size of his index finger. This was just what Blackreach did.

When Aicantar emerged into the cathedral, the very first thing he did was to hand the crate off to the nearest guard on duty, with instructions to take it to their temple of Akatosh. That was sort of the big one in Alftand, since all different races worshiped him. It was also probably where the bone break fever outbreak was being dealt with, since priests basically universally doubled as healers.

But while he might've liked to deliver the vials personally, right now he just wanted to get them off his hands. He was sweaty and sticky and disgusting. This was a good time to make use of the city's incredibly luxurious living accommodations.

He walked back to the living quarters without really thinking about anything at all. He'd worked his share today. Those little flakes had been practically impossible to grind down, but he'd done it. Now Alftand had its potions, and he was ready to just relax.

As usual, there were a few kids playing around in the corridors, but he ignored them and went on to his room. No one else was in here right now. That was fine. He just opened his personal chest, fetched a change of clothes, his towel, and some soap, and left.

The hallway outside Aicantar's room had nine other rooms attached to it. His was 226, and the others filled in from 220 to 229. And each room had four beds. That was a total of forty people. Not a small number in the slightest. But right now, the day was only just getting into evening—so when he went over into the showers, he found that he had them all to himself.

Splendid.

The Altmer cast his fresh change of clothing aside on the left bench, then pulled off all his sweat-soaked attire and threw _that_ on the bench too. The air felt oddly cool on his skin. He wasn't about to stand around here and enjoy it, though. He went over to the nearest showerhead, grasped the handle on the wall beneath it—put himself well out of the way of the impending flow—and gave it a turn.

The pipes hissed and rushed to life all across the ceiling. A quarter second later, the water started coming out. Aicantar waited until it was nice and hot, then moved over to stand beneath. The instant the water touched his skin, it started bathing him in sweet cleansing relief. He turned in a slow circle, getting it all over him, putting his face up into it, letting it soak through his hair… it was perfect. Only in Blackreach Hold could he do something like this.

He had a little time to think, while he was in here. And maybe some other time, he might've been thinking about something big and important. But at the moment, he was just marveling at how great this all was. Yes, Alftand was dealing with all kinds of problems right now. But it was a splendid city. The Dwemer had left them something fantastic.

The floor in here was made of a few really huge stone tiles, tilted outwards by something like two degrees. Basically flat. But as he was showering, he was watching the water all inexorably flow into the grated inch-wide drains all around the perimeter of the room. And after stopping the shower to soap up, and starting it anew to rinse the lather away, he got to watch the suds trail their way down too.

That was always sort of entertaining. Aicantar knew the water was going down into the network of pipes all through the city, destined to be filtered and returned to the reservoir—but at the moment, his scholarly sense of analysis was overridden by how amazing it was that he could just make more fresh water come down on him with the turn of a handle. People would kill for this kind of luxury.

So why wouldn't they move to Alftand for it? That still didn't make sense.

This was probably enough showering for now. Aicantar turned the handle back to home, and the water cut right off. Then he grabbed his soap by its metal tray, and turned around to go get a towel.

Sarelle was sitting there on the bench. She smiled at him and held up a towel in her hand. "You need one of these?"

Aicantar's heart skipped a beat. He didn't know what to do. He was just standing here. His cheeks were flushing, he was still dripping wet, he didn't even have any clothes on—this was just great. He fumbled for words. "Wh… Wh-b… How long have you been in…"

"Couple minutes," the Breton shrugged nonchalantly. "Didn't want to bother you while you were busy. Figured I'd wait."

Great. This was great. He didn't even know whether to be angry at the woman for sitting there and watching. He ended up just striding over and snatching the towel away. At least now he could dry off and do something with himself besides stand there.

Before Sarelle could say anything, he asked, "Did they not do privacy in the Reach?"

"Well, I was just off work, and I wanted to see if you were up here yet, so…"

"Next time I'm looking for you, if you're busy showering, I'm just gonna sit there and stare for the whole thing." Aicantar finished drying as quickly as he could manage. He threw the towel at Sarelle's head and went to start putting things on.

Sarelle didn't say anything. When Aicantar looked back at her, he saw that he'd managed to drape his towel right over her face. She was just sitting there like that.

Good.

Once he was dressed up again, the Altmer said, "I mean it, though. You could've at least said hi. Otherwise it's sort of spying on them. Kinda creepy."

"Point taken, sorry." Sarelle's voice was kind of muffled because she had a towel on her head. "You know, most people just wear their towels back to their rooms and change there."

Aicantar pulled his towel away again, leaving Sarelle's hair kind of mussed in the process. He couldn't help but smile at this point. "I was enjoying getting to be by myself. But I suppose company works too."

Sarelle smoothed her hair out with one hand, then tossed it back with a flick of her head. She was returning the smile. It was always so beautiful when she smiled. Kind of distracting, too, but that was all right.

Now that the Altmer was all set, he gave his hair a quick doing-over with a metal comb from his pocket, so it wouldn't dry all stuck together funny. Then he grabbed his dirty clothes and his towel, and that was it. He walked right on out of the room without a word. And a few seconds later, when he got back to his own, he found it … still empty.

As he hung his towel on the wall to dry, he said, "I thought there'd be people here by now. Work's letting out, right?"

"Depends on the work," Sarelle said from behind him. "Administration finishes at five, but other jobs have other times. The important thing is that they're off for dinner. No one wants to miss that. … I mean, assuming your roommates have all found work already."

"What, you suppose they wouldn't?"

"Before the attack, we had some work teams organized, but most people didn't have formal jobs. They were all just… waiting. We're only getting all these big problems these days because people are finally treating Alftand like their home. … That, and we had a lot of strong healthy warriors and workers from only a couple different cities, so introducing disease wasn't as big a concern."

Aicantar's dirty clothing went in a bag inside his personal chest. He'd drop it off for cleaning later. His soap went in there too. It came in a neat little metal case that opened and stacked on itself to give it a tray. Made it easy to store, certainly.

Sarelle added, "Don't you know if your own roommates have found work yet? Have you asked?"

"No, we, uh… we don't talk much. I guess it's a little bad if I can't even say if they have jobs." The Altmer laughed sheepishly. Since it didn't seem like anything else needed him, he went over and sat down on his bed for now. "Ugh. My own work's been exhausting, though. We were making curative potions all day."

"Really? That's great!" Sarelle beamed. There was that beautiful look again. She sat down on the bed opposite him. Cairine's bed. Hopefully, that didn't count as rude. "We've been really struggling to get on this, so… that's great to hear. How many did you make?"

"About a hundred. I dunno how good they are, though. The nirnroot garden was helping them out, and it's gone now. Big magical incident recently. No one's hurt, but… those were helping with the potions, just by being nearby."

Now the Breton frowned. "Is that so? I didn't know nirnroots could do that. Huh. That's a pity, I really liked those things. I'm sure the potions will be just fine anyway. … Magical incident, though? I thought you had all that Aetherium ore, right? We've been sprinkling it all over the place up here."

"I think the nirnroots sort of created a vulnerability anyway," Aicantar said ruefully. "Too much magic in one place. So, until the Shadow Unending's done, no nirnroots for us. How are things up here, though? Just overseeing the fever control?"

"A little bit, but not that much. It's mostly up to the priests. We're up to sixty-two patients. I'm not sure how much we can do about it. But we're using some of the empty rooms for quarantining until we can figure this out."

Aicantar put a hand on his chin thoughtfully. "How _do_ we deal with this?"

"I don't know," Sarelle admitted. "The College of Winterhold has given us reports on epidemics of the past—I don't know why everyone doesn't access these things, it seems like common sense. One theory is that all diseases are fundamentally magical, whether they're seemingly mundane or not, and they need to be dealt with via magical means, which… honestly, sounds like something a mage would think. There's also a theory that disease is weak to fire, which is probably true, but we can't exactly burn Alftand to a crisp just to scrub it clean."

"Well … why not? I don't think stone and metal are very flammable."

"Mmmm, maybe. There's a lot of sensitive stuff here. Someone will be looking into it, I'm sure. Personally, I'm busy enough just filing papers. We're having to expand Administration to have a dedicated tax office, do you know that? There's just too much work now."

"Plenty of workers, though, right? … And they're from Markarth, so you know they're good with money." Aicantar grinned. Maybe he was making a bit of a judgment with that one, but he ought to have known. He _had_ lived there.

"Something like that." Sarelle gave him a shifty, skeptical squint. "It's… it's difficult. We don't want to invite corruption. But it'd be frighteningly easy to do by accident. We're in a very vulnerable time. If we can't send the message now that they have to play by Alftand's rules, it'll be Markarth's rules instead for this city. And frankly, I don't want to see Jarl Noster when he's pissed off."

"Oh, he's not that bad," the Altmer laughed. "He's nice. Although I think I get it. … Maybe. I'm surprised this wasn't a problem before all my buddies from Markarth arrived. Not to sound bad, but we do have all those Khajiit, and…"

"Well, that's different. A lot of the people we've gotten, the ones from less than perfect backgrounds, they came from a culture of lawlessness. Bandits, skooma traders, back-alley thieves. Once they came to Alftand, and they were shown the law, they knew they'd have to change how they live. So we've been helping them with adjusting to that. But the people of Markarth come from a culture of corruption. They're perfectly versed in living in cities and following rules, but they're used to assuming those rules can be bent. We present them with our laws, and they agree to them, but that's not the end of it. We're going to have to be very careful, or we'll end up with all of our guards answering to a few rich merchants."

That sounded about right. No one was a Silver-Blood here, but everyone had been part of that family's little empire, like it or not. That was just what Markarth knew. It was all about pressing whatever advantages they could, and taking whatever bribes were offered to them. But now Aicantar's mind was drifting elsewhere. He focused on the Breton before him. "What about you?"

"Me? What about my culture of origin, do you mean?" Sarelle paused for a few seconds, staring into space thoughtfully. "I suppose you could say I come from a culture of sacrifice. It's what the Forsworn did. They did end up giving their lives for their homeland. But even before that, they were prepared to do whatever it took to get their freedom. Even I was part of that, you know. One of their sacrifices-to-be."

"And now you're working Administration."

The Breton grinned knowingly. "The cruel fate of daily paperwork. My sacrifice is just inescapable in the end."

Just then, the doors opened. And in walked one of the other roommates. An Orc woman, heavily scarred across her face and neck, with long tied-back graying hair and a fairly sturdy build. Regular worker clothes, of course. Her name was Jenze, and that was basically the only thing Aicantar knew about her.

In any case, she stopped right at the doorway and stared at Sarelle for a couple seconds. Then she glanced at Aicantar. "Who's your friend?"

"Sarelle," the Breton introduced herself, before Aicantar could get it out. "What's your name?"

Jenze said it, then added, "That's not your bed, you know."

"I know, I just didn't want to sit directly next to my good friend here." Sarelle actually winked at him as she said that. He had no idea how to interpret that. "We can step out if you'd prefer the room to yourself."

"S'fine, just here to get some things." The Orc walked across the room and took out her personal key. Her bed was diagonally opposite Aicantar's, so she was just a few feet away from Sarelle as she opened up her chest.

While she was doing so, Aicantar asked, "I've been wondering. What have you been doing lately? In Alftand?"

"Eh?" Jenze looked up at him in something like surprise. "Uh… I landed a job in the Steamstitch. Doing some sewing."

"… Sewing," Aicantar repeated blankly.

"Aye, sewing, like for clothes." Jenze paused for a couple seconds. When she saw Aicantar wasn't satisfied with the answer, she continued. "They have this big fancy steam-powered machine to work a needle, takes up half a room, but that's how the last folks here made all these things." She gave the shoulder of her shirt a tug.

"Huh. How about that." The Altmer thought about it for a second. He might've actually seen that machine already, when he'd toured this place a while back. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but… of course the Dwemer would have a machine for this. Of course. They were the supreme gods of automation. They'd never sit around sewing things by hand if they could invent something to do a faster job.

"It's good that we have that going still," Sarelle said. "When we first settled here, most people just wore whatever they brought with them. But a lot of our newcomers these days don't _have_ any halfway decent clothes to their name. Jarl Noster's been buying a lot of cheap, simple light garments from our own tailors, just to this end. The fact that they suit Alftand better than most other clothes is an added convenience."

Jenze pulled up from her chest what looked like a bundle of dark green cloth. It was hard to tell if anything was inside. But she closed up and headed back out without saying anything else, leaving Aicantar and Sarelle in here alone once again.

Aicantar stared at Sarelle for a couple seconds. "… Do you just know everything?"

"Oh, Administration always knows," the Breton said breezily.

It probably said something about the nature of Administration that Aicantar couldn't tell if she was joking.

He said, "So, uh… what time is it? Do you know?"

"Still saving up for one of those timepieces," Sarelle smiled half-guiltily. "But it can't be that long past five. Dinner's not for a while yet, if that's what you're wondering."

That made him stop and think for a second. "Actually, I need to take a trip into the Silent City to talk to Lenve about _my_ money. I haven't actually received any yet, I guess because…"

"… it's not going through our offices, yes. Ouch, though." Sarelle made a show of wincing. Like money was even that big a deal down here.

"Well, it could be worse. But it's a long trip over there, so I'll want to do that after dinner." Aicantar paused for a moment. Thought about his day for a second. "Actually, I don't know. Maybe not."

Sarelle raised her eyebrows. "What? Why not?"

"I, uh… I saw some people coming in, and they're probably going to be having Lenve's attention. At the very least, I don't think I should get in the way today." He was only thinking of this just now, too. It should've been sort of obvious earlier. People like that didn't just come in to see the sights.

"People coming in?" Her eyebrows stayed up. "What kind of people?"

Aicantar hesitated.

"… I can keep a secret," Sarelle grinned conspiratorially.

"Uhh, well, not people from Alftand. Legionnaires, actually. They were just passing through, but… you don't suppose this is going to be some kind of big trouble, do you?"

The grin gave way to a solemn, contemplative look. "Hmm. … It might. The Empire doesn't really have a military stake here. You may want to look into that. If they're here to state some kind of demands, we're all in trouble."

Aicantar swallowed. He hadn't even thought of that. He was thinking now of what had happened with Markarth—the Black Machine had taken it, and then they'd stepped aside to let the Legion run things. Were they going to step aside now too?

Not that it was good to jump to conclusions. No one would appreciate that. But it was hard to feel optimistic about this.

"Try not to worry about it," Sarelle added. "Just think. We have a nice delicious dinner waiting for us!"

Aicantar put his face in his hands. "Oh, gods, Sarelle, please—"


	43. Gelebor 9

Loredas, 5:54 PM, 58th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Dawnstar

The city appeared suddenly, coming into view as Gelebor and Teldryn rode around a bending hillside path. It was a semicircular array of snow-dusted wooden buildings, laid out along several concentric steps, like the seats of an amphitheater. Its stage, as it were, was a massive surface of dark blue water, leading the way out to a vast ocean dotted with distant islets and icebergs. This was Skyrim's northern coast. The city of Dawnstar was sitting directly upon it.

For the first time since leaving Darkfall Cave, Gelebor was not pleased by the sight of a Nordic settlement. He was well aware of all the work that had gone into his place. But this was the place where his effort to save Mundus had been stopped.

Upon returning to Riverwood, he and Teldryn had been dismayed to find Vidrald absent. In his place was another written message, this time from Kamian, the great ebony-clad giant from Whiterun. The message was simple: The fourth Aetherium shard had been located. It was in Dawnstar. And due to the Jarl's distrust for the Empire, he was refusing to relinquish it.

That meant it was time to go talk to the Jarl of Dawnstar in person. More than that, it was time to talk to him immediately. And since Blackreach's means of transportation were both unavailable and inapplicable, the two companions had proceeded to do the next best thing: go to the stables, and buy a pair of sleek black horses.

Gelebor had not ridden a horse in some time, to say the least. But he was certainly familiar with the practice. The creatures had not changed much during his time in the Chantry. He had to take longer getting accustomed to the Nord-made tack than to the mare it was fitted on. She was a sweet mare, as well. Someone had named her Yngol, which Gelebor thought was an egregiously terrible name, since she was not the son of the greatest slayer of snow elves in all history.

All the same, it was on this mare that he set off at a swift, sustained gallop for the north. Teldryn followed him up the road past farms and watchtowers, past locals and travelers, all at the same pace. Only their healing spells, delivered to the mounts beneath them, had kept the great beasts from collapsing in exhaustion in the first half-hour.

The scenery around them had changed from open plains to snowy taiga, and the air had cooled accordingly. But the weather was clear, and their journey was safe—more likely than not, because they were journeying so quickly that there was simply no time for any misfortune to befall them. Teldryn seemed not to enjoy the cold air, but for his own part, Gelebor cared little. Being the last living snow elf, it would have been no less than hilarious for him to somehow manage to have trouble with the snow.

In the end, they crossed the entire distance to Dawnstar in just under three days. And now here they were, arriving exactly as planned. As Gelebor rode into view of the city, he noted to himself that he still hadn't been able to think of a good name for his horse.

For this last mile or so, Gelebor allowed her to slow to a canter. It wouldn't do to enter Dawnstar too conspicuously. Already, he was wondering where he and Teldryn would be able to leave their horses while they were here—did Dawnstar even have a stable? He was not leaving this mare out to freeze.

"Hey." Teldryn eased his way around to ride at Gelebor's left side. "Figured out what you're going to say yet?"

Gelebor gave him an impudent grin. "What I'm going to say? Who said I would be doing the talking?"

"Oh, can you imagine if I do it? Teldryn Sero, at your service, also this is the last living snow elf, now I'd like to talk to you about magic rocks—"

"Wait, let me try. Let me try. Knight-Paladin Gelebor, last living snow elf at your service, no, truly, I am at your service, I'm sure you remember how to enslave snow elves—"

Over these past days, he'd had quite the opportunity to become comfortable with Teldryn. Granted, they had spent a great deal of time focusing on keeping their horses galloping, but it was easier to converse with him at length when Vidrald was away. This wasn't through any fault of Vidrald's own, of course—it was simply a matter of undivided attention.

"You should do the talking, though," Teldryn said. "I mean it. I don't have your way with words, and… at least maybe they'll give you an open mind. They already know they hate dark elves."

Gelebor gave him a silent, skeptical look.

"Just introduce yourself as a priest of Akatosh. They like that name."

"If you say so," the snow elf shrugged. He didn't know why his faith in Auri-El kept being reinterpreted this way. Perhaps Auri-El and Akatosh were the same being, but they were the same being as seen through two different worlds. Hardly a source of common ground.

If only Vidrald were here. He was the perfect Nord envoy, and he was busy solving problems on the far end of the province, whatever those problems were. Hopefully they weren't overly lethal.

Not that Gelebor was worried for Vidrald's safety. He would, no doubt, be waiting for them in Riverwood. The written message from Kamian hadn't been the only thing left for them. He and Sorine had, somehow, procured a full set of Dawnguard armor for Gelebor, and the remaining pieces for Teldryn. That Imperial shopkeeper had been holding into it all for them, along with a note to the effect of, 'see you soon'. It had simply stood out little compared to the other note to the effect of, 'get to Dawnstar or everyone will die'.

In any case, he and Teldryn now looked every bit the part of a pair of wandering vampire hunters. And perhaps that didn't give entirely the correct impression. On the other hand, he could not deny that the Dawnguard armor did protect him better than his old Chantry armor. He remembered what that Dwemer sphere had done to his wrist.

Teldryn pointed across the expanse of buildings ahead. "Which of these do you suppose is the Jarl's hall? The big one?"

There was only one building to fit that description. At nearly the center of the outermost row, a single structure was standing twice as tall and twice as wide as those around it. Its roof was tiered in three distinct levels, and the overhanging thatching gave the impression that it was three buildings nested in one. In any case, it would take a short bit of riding to reach.

"Well, it's not quite Dragonsreach," Gelebor replied flatly.

Admittedly, that wasn't a very fair appraisal. This city, Dawnstar, was clearly as large as it needed to be for its purposes. And certainly, the people here must have contributed to it the same as any other place. It was a Nordic settlement, and it deserved respect for that.

So it wasn't fair of him at all to think poorly of this place. Dragon Bridge had been quite a bit smaller, and he'd been awed by _that_ , hadn't he?

… Hadn't he?

This wasn't working. His mood was too soured by the matter of the Aetherium. If he went into the Jarl's hall with this attitude, someone would end up dying.

They took their horses down the path into the city, and through the streets to the one large building at the apex of it all. Fortunately, or perhaps in simple deference to reality, there were stalls for their mounts in an enclosure just outside. Not quite what Gelebor would call a stable, but it was here for a reason. And the local guards didn't even ask any questions. They simply waited for the two travelers to dismount, then handled the rest for them.

As Gelebor stepped into the road, he was taken by a strange sense of finality—and of suddenness. After only three days' ride, he had gone from the gates of Whiterun to the streets of Dawnstar. He tried to conjure the memory of Whiterun Hold's cool open plains in his mind. It felt so distant now. He didn't know what to think of that.

Then, simply for reference's sake, he tried to conjure the memory of the Reach's motionless sea of ash and stone. It was hard to think that that even occupied the same world as this city.

"They'll need water," Teldryn called after the guards as he shook some feeling back into his legs.

"Animals do that sometimes, sir," a Nord-sounding voice called back from inside the stalls.

Teldryn squinted in the stalls' direction for a moment, then turned to Gelebor. He was hunched miserably into himself. "Are you ready? Because I'm cold."

"The Jarl's name is Skald, correct?" Gelebor's eyes were already on the hall's front door. They were at the top of a short wooden staircase, as usual.

The Dunmer blew out a long, misty sigh before answering. "I think so. If you get it wrong, just say that's how his name translates in your language."

"Splendid idea, Teldryn. Forget that he can then call me 'pointy-eared snowball' with the allegation that that's how my name translates in _his_ language."

Seeing as his companion did, in fact, appear to be ready, Gelebor proceeded immediately for the doors. There was no sense waiting now. If he was going to have trouble thinking of what to say, standing here and pondering the matter wasn't likely to help.

On principle, the snow elf was aware that this building was, in fact, a counterpart to Dragonsreach. It was the greatest building in its hold capital, and home to its ruler. It may have been smaller, and perhaps poorer, but it deserved to stand on its own merit, as the building the people of Dawnstar saw their leadership in. That was the mindset he had when he entered.

The doors gave way to a spacious, well-lit room with stone flooring and wooden walls. There was a ceiling high above, and balconies on the left and right sides. A couple of stone braziers were burning away in the middle of the floor, one after another. There were doors off to side rooms, and at the far end of the hall, a throne with an older-looking Nord man sitting on it. A man in armor was standing at his side.

Gelebor's sense of wonder had failed him. He couldn't bring himself to care about the intricacies of this place. This journey had taxed him too much, for too little of a reason. He and Teldryn strode up the hall without a word.

The Jarl was a weathered, wrinkled man, with the same dark stubble over his scalp and on his face. He wore an outfit not unlike Balgruuf's, but with a jarringly bright silver and sapphire circlet upon his head. It matched the colors of nothing else on him. He looked like he had a somewhat incomplete idea of what a Jarl was supposed to look like.

Then he opened his mouth and addressed the two newcomers: "Oh, do we have a vampire problem in Dawnstar? That'd be a sight."

Gelebor instantly decided he didn't like this man's voice. It was roughened with age and steeped in condescension. If he'd harbored any vestige of hope of this being an enjoyable conversation, it had just vanished.

Still, he and Teldryn assembled before the Jarl side by side, at a respectful speaking distance. "We are merely friends to the Dawnguard, not members ourselves," he said, before removing his helmet. "I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor, servant of Akatosh, and last living snow elf."

The Jarl opened his mouth silently.

Teldryn removed his helmet and said, "And I am Teldryn Sero, spellsword for hire, and one of many dark elves."

Gelebor added, "We would speak to you now, Jarl Skald."

"So you're a snow elf, are you?" The Jarl laughed out loud. This was an odd time to laugh. "Really? Well, that would explain the paleness. I thought old Ysgramor wiped out the lot of you. You've a lot of nerve wandering around Skyrim, eh?"

This wasn't helping matters. Gelebor tightened his jaw and took a slow breath in. His answer was going to need to be very careful, and diplomatic, and indicative of none of the anger he was beginning to feel. It was more than mere impatience now. But he could not falter. "If it helps at all," he said, "consider me here only on Akatosh's behalf. Because that is the truth. I have waited these past few thousand years in seclusion, only to be sent out now."

Jarl Skald replied, "Well, that's a beautiful story. And you're so pale, maybe you really are a snow elf. It's been nice meeting the two of you."

"This is about the Aetherium," Teldryn said suddenly.

Gelebor fought the urge to close his eyes in resignation.

Skald's attitude changed instantly. His face darkened, and he leaned forward in his throne ever so slightly, suddenly giving off a threatening air. "Listen," he said. "If you want it, you can forget it. There's only one place it's safe, and that's here. Now, unless there was anything else—"

"Wait. Wait." The snow elf held up his hands nonthreateningly. He rather wished he didn't have these leather gloves on for it. Good for protective armor, not good for looking harmless. "Who asked for it before us?"

"You mean you don't know?" Skald raised his eyebrows in surprise. But his hostile look returned just as quickly. "The _Dragonborn_ asked for it. His servants did, at any rate. Listen, if you two are going to stand here and waste my time…"

"As a servant of the god of Time, I should hope to treat it well," he replied smoothly.

The Jarl barked in laughter. "Hah! You've got some nerve indeed, eh? I like that." Then he paused. His expression was just a fraction gentler than before. Apparently, that gamble of witticism had paid off. "You've been away, then? All right, listen. The Dragonborn is hailed from Solitude to Riften as a hero. You'll hear about him by talking to just about anyone out there. And true, he's done some good things for us. But they all like to forget what he did to the Stormcloaks."

Teldryn said, "He ended the rebellion. Right?"

"Oh, he did more than that, elf," Skald replied bitterly. "He murdered Ulfric Stormcloak, aye, it's true. But he couldn't stop there. He had to destroy the man's reputation, too. He knew the sons of Skyrim would never forgive him for bringing down a hero like that man, so he fabricated a document claiming Ulfric was a Thalmor pawn. And sent copies of it to every crevice and corner of every hold. I received one, myself. The Dragonborn is a man of lies. He can't be trusted."

"I've heard he did something to Oblivion," Gelebor offered, more to gauge the Jarl's reaction than anything. There had to be more to him than an apparent blind support for the late Jarl Ulfric.

"Oh, he did something, all right. And in case you haven't noticed, the WORLD'S FALLING APART FOR IT!" Suddenly, Skald was shouting at the top of his lungs, his face twisted in fury. Gelebor jumped back a little.

Then, just like that, he slumped back in his throne, and let out a long, defeated sigh. "… And now he wants the Aetherium. I'm not playing into his plans. If you want it, well, I'm sure you have good intentions, the two of you. But the Aetherium stays with me."

It was hard to think that a man like this could be the leader of anything, or anyone. Yet here he was, the Jarl of Dawnstar, with the same political standing as any other jarl out there. Gelebor had walked in here displeased, but now he was more frightened than anything. Frightened, not by the threat of the Jarl's anger, but by the thought that people's lives could be controlled by a man so mired in delusion and anger. This conversation felt more precarious by the second.

Teldryn began to say, "Well…"

"We want it to undo the damage he's wrought," Gelebor cut in, which wasn't entirely true. But he didn't want to try convincing this man about the true threat at hand, the one posed by the World-Eater. Frankly, he considered himself fortunate that they were still talking at all. "Akatosh sent me to do this. I answer to no one else. Not the jarls, not the Dragonborn, not any mortal. The Aetherium is vital to stop what's happening out there. Please."

Jarl Skald stared silently at him for a few long seconds, resting his chin and cheek on one hand. Then he picked his head up and said, "To be honest, Gelebort, I don't think I should trust you. I don't care what you say you are, or whom you say you serve. I'd be taking your word for it, and why should I do that?"

The snow elf stared back. His jaw was tightening a little bit again. "… My name is Gelebor. There is no letter T on the end."

"You should have your name changed," the Jarl said without missing a beat. "But listen, both of you. You do seem nice enough. I understand Nords aren't the only good folk out there, even if Skyrim isn't really your home. But you still aren't Nords, and you did just walk in here. You walked in here, and asked for something that doesn't belong to you. And your reason why? You want to save the world, and I should take your word for it. That sounds an _awful lot_ like the Dragonborn to me."

"I've never met him," Gelebor said blankly.

"Me neither," Teldryn added.

"He sounds rather frightening," Gelebor continued. "But what do you think we plan to do with it? End the world, like the Dragonborn seems to want to?"

"How in Oblivion should I know?" Skald snorted dismissively. "Point is, it's not safe with you. Beyond that, it doesn't matter. You two are lucky enough to be even standing where you are now. I could've had you both thrown in jail just for asking for this thing."

"I appreciate your patience, in that case," the snow elf replied.

Skald grunted noncommittally.

He continued carefully: "So… assuming you don't want to share the shard with anyone, what do you intend to do instead?"

"At the moment? Nothing. There's nothing I _can_ do, anyway. If the Dragonborn's ending the world, I'll leave it to the Divines to smite him for it. Heh, I bet Talos would have a glorious day with that one." The Jarl looked off into space for a moment, smirking to himself, before returning to his thought. "But it doesn't matter. I'll need to leave Dawnstar soon enough anyway."

"Oh." Gelebor frowned. "Where are you going, if I may ask?"

"Whiterun. We're holding the Moot in just under two weeks. I'll be leaving the city in a day or so."

"The Moot," Teldryn repeated blankly.

"Skyrim needs a new High King. With all the trouble the Dragonborn's stirring up, that's truer now than ever. We'll need someone to free us from both him _and_ the Empire." Skald said it all like it was just a factual truth. Gelebor's feeling of disturbance was returning again. "It's been over half a year since High King Torygg was brought down, and it's been one crisis after another since. But enough is enough. I'm not making any secret of going there, but it is a long and hard journey, so I'll be leaving quite soon indeed."

Gelebor asked, "Who's going to become the new High King, then?"

At this, Skald grinned broadly. That feeling of disturbance was not relenting. "Well, the Empire wanted to put Jarl Elisif in her late husband's place. And they might've gotten away with it, once. But my vote is for Jarl Brunwulf. That's Ulfric's successor in Windhelm. Not a perfect man, but he runs a good city, and he knows the values of a true Nord as well as any. He'll make a good High King, no doubt."

It was surprising, how willingly Jarl Skald was sharing all this information with what amounted to a couple of strangers. He must have been completely, utterly assured in everything he was choosing to share—his opinions on the world, and his expectations for what would come. It made Gelebor wonder whether there was anything he was actually holding back.

More worrying, however, was that the snow elf could think of no reason why this wouldn't go as Jarl Skald intended. He held the power in this situation. And if he believed this Jarl Brunwulf would become High King, two things were clear—one, that he was completely certain they would have enough votes to ensure his coronation, and two, that Jarl Brunwulf would not use his authority to do anything Jarl Skald disagreed with.

Teldryn asked, "Are you sure it's wise to leave the Aetherium unguarded here in Dawnstar? That's a long time to be away from it. Anything could happen."

"Oh, please," the Jarl spat derisively. Again, the sudden anger. "You won't fool me that easily. See, this is how I know you don't have the heart of a Nord. All you have on your side are honeyed words and empty promises. The shard will be protected, whether I'm here to do it myself or not."

This line of discussion clearly was yielding nothing. Gelebor decided to change the subject somewhat. "Perhaps we could follow you down, then? The Moot sounds like quite a momentous event to witness."

"No one's stopping you from traveling to Whiterun," Skald said firmly, and it was already clear that he was going to say something amounting to a refusal. "The Moot itself, however, is to be held behind closed doors. We can't have the common folk all coming in and making noise while we have our deliberations. In fact, the only reason we're not choosing a more secluded place is for the sake of getting this done quickly."

"Whiterun's a nice enough city," Teldryn said mildly. "It'd be nice to visit it."

Gelebor noted that his companion had omitted saying that they had been there recently already. That was likely wise. The less they divulged of their own history of plans, it seemed, the better their chances were of this ending civilly.

So far, this discussion had been an abject failure. But in hindsight, this was hardly surprising. If Jarl Skald had not yielded for the Dragonborn, he wasn't likely to yield for a couple of hitherto unknown elves in the armor of vampire hunters. There had simply been no choice but to come here and do their best.

He wondered what options were available to him now. Surely, a more violent confrontation would only end in the loss of any hope of obtaining the shard. Jarl Skald had no doubt hidden it someplace they would never discover. And that armored bodyguard of his had been leering silently at them this entire time. There was no guarantee that they could even get past that man, let alone achieve their intended goal.

But any more peaceful persuasion was clearly falling upon deaf ears. Gelebor knew already, without even needing to assess the exact possibilities, that anything he offered as proof of his identity would be dismissed as irrelevant. The Jarl had decided that he could trust only himself with the Aetherium shard, and no conditions would change that.

Not even the world ending outside. Nord stubbornness was a sight to behold.

Gelebor wondered what Auri-El intended for him at this juncture. He could scarcely believe that a Divine would have him playing a role in mortal politics. But still, the only thing he could think of would be to disrupt the Moot in some way, to keep it from proceeding as planned. Not that he had a more specific plan than that—but Jarl Skald had mentioned the Moot, and it was where he was headed soon. It had to be important somehow.

If this Jarl Elisif supported the Empire, she likely also supported the Dragonborn. He made a note of that. Already, he had a suspicion that it would mean a great deal later on.

Jarl Skald said, "Unless you two have anything else to bring to my attention, I believe it's time you went on your way."

Gelebor and Teldryn exchanged a glance. There wasn't much to be said now. After a second's pause, Gelebor replied, "I believe that will be all. Thank you, Jarl Skald, for your patient audience. Blessings of Akatosh on you and your city."

Skald didn't reply. Gelebor turned and left the building in kind. He'd had quite enough of all that.

It was a little dimmer outside than he remembered. Perhaps just a touch cooler, as well, though the cold mattered as little now as ever. The snow was shining orange-pink with the evening sun, which was quite pretty. Up above, the sky was clear and starting to darken. A few stars were visible already. That was typical enough, these days.

No one else was walking on this street at the moment. A few guards were standing on watch here and there. It all looked very quiet. Gelebor wondered briefly what everyone around here was busy doing, then remembered that he didn't have it in him to care very deeply at the moment. At this point, he felt, it was less a matter of apathy and more a matter of distraction.

Teldryn walked up beside him and let out a low, resigned sigh. "Well, that, uh… that went well."

"We didn't get arrested," Gelebor said idly. "Or executed."

"Or enslaved," the Dunmer added.

"Indeed. But here we are, standing in Dawnstar, enjoying the outcome of our frantically hasty ride north. We have spoken to the Jarl. At… at this moment, I would welcome your thoughts."

"I think I'm hungry," Teldryn replied instantly. "And cold, again. It's mid-evening. Perhaps we can stay the night here, and ride back south in the morning."

"Are you all right leaving our horses where they are?"

"Oh, I'm sure my Sera will be fine. Yours too. They're better-suited to the cold than you are."

Sera. That was what Teldryn had named his horse. Gelebor didn't know what that was about, exactly, but the Dunmer hadn't even _told_ him what she'd originally been named. Perhaps she'd been named Yngvild. It was likely best not to ask.

"If you say so," he said. "I don't share your hunger, of course. Or your cold, particularly. But I'm sure we'll make it to Whiterun before Jarl Skald does, and that's what counts."

"What if the Moot's not in Whiterun, and he's just throwing us off? Or on an earlier date than a… a 'couple weeks' from now?"

Gelebor paused. "Then… we should ride quickly, and confirm its time and place with the Jarl of Whiterun ourselves."

Teldryn started walking down the street, erring slightly in the direction of one of the nearby buildings. There was little to do but follow him. The building had a sign out front, which Gelebor couldn't read at this distance. But judging by the rather generous size of the structure itself, it was likely an inn.

This would be the fourth Nordic inn that Gelebor had visited, and the first in a hold capital. He wondered if it would be any different from the rest.

"This is insanity," Teldryn muttered. "You know we can't sway the Moot. We're going to have to get that shard some other way."

The snow elf raised his eyebrows just a bit. "Are you planning on stealing it? He's sure to blame the Dragonborn if we do."

"Better than letting all of Mundus go to ruin."

"We'd need to _find_ the shard, first."

Teldryn dropped his voice to a lower, quieter register as a pair of guards approached on by. "Could always just smack the man around until he gives it up."

"Not likely to work," Gelebor replied casually. He could hardly believe he was even having this conversation. This was where he had ended up. They were discussing the notion of physically coercing the Jarl of Dawnstar into handing over a prized possession. Even if it wasn't a serious plan… that had to indicate something.

"No, but it's nice to think about." Teldryn's reply was in a rather airy tone. "I wanted to put my fist through that man's ugly old teeth after the first twenty seconds."

A few seconds went by in silence. The inn was coming up.

"Let's get some food in you," Gelebor said.

Teldryn nodded quickly. "That's a good idea. Come on."

He closed the rest of the distance to the inn's doors at a quick jogging pace. There was little to do but follow him inside.

Gelebor was not surprised in the slightest by the interior of the inn. He already knew what to expect. The hearth was burning, the air was warm, the room was mostly quiet. None of it felt too terribly important right then. While his companion went off to the counter to make his order, the snow elf lingered by the doors, and eventually leaned his back against the wall just beside them.

It was as he had said. Here they were, up in Dawnstar, enjoying the outcome of their hasty ride north. For his own part, Gelebor was deeply dismayed—not simply by the sheer stubborn refusal of the Jarl to help, but by his own reaction to this leg of their journey. Here, in this man who absolutely would not help them, not even when the world hung in the balance, was the sort of mentality that had destroyed the snow elf race. For someone to use their power over others to such closed-minded and self-centered ends—that was all it took for a people to be destroyed.

The snow elves, as a people, were gone now. It was a sad truth of the Fourth Era. But Skyrim was full of people who were very much alive. And yet they were being endangered just as the snow elves had been—not by some grand existential threat, in the end, but by someone misusing the power they had been given. It had been horrible enough to endure the first time. Now the horrors of the past were rearing their heads in the present.

And he still couldn't think of a good name for his horse.


	44. Zaryth 7

Fredas, 12:11 AM, 57th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Tel Varlais

Zaryth couldn't sleep. It just wasn't happening tonight.

She knew she had to. This was the fourth night she'd gone without proper sleep. Fourth night? Fifth night? She'd get a few hours in here and there, but sleep wasn't working. It was maddening.

Well, what was maddening was that she couldn't figure this Shadow Unending out. The world was coming apart at the seams out there, and she simply wasn't seeing how. Fine, Alduin was back, he was doing something to end the world, great, they had a problem. How was he doing it? When had he gotten that kind of power?

If they were going to stop this, they had to figure that out. Zaryth had to figure that out. But this just… wasn't… working.

She was sitting in her bedchamber, which was a small but comfortable space with the bed on a raised shelf, a natural bookshelf beneath, and a cushy chair across from it. She was in the chair right then, poring over an account of the Oblivion Crisis. It'd been the last event to match something of this scale and severity, so she was trying to find any similarities.

Chances were that she was going in circles with this. Over the past few days, she'd already read all the books she could find about any possibly relevant topic. But no patterns were emerging. This was all new.

At this point, the words were all starting to blur together anyway. She closed her book with a sigh, pushed herself up to return it to its shelf, then collapsed face-first onto her bed.

She still couldn't sleep.

"Hey." A hand was shaking her by the shoulder. "Wake up."

Had she fallen asleep? It hadn't felt like any time had passed. She rolled onto her side and looked up, rubbing at her eyes with one hand.

J'zargo's face was looking down at her. He was standing there in his full court-wizard attire, right there in her room. When had he gotten in?

He looked concerned. He said, "Are you well?"

"Mmmgnhhh…" Zaryth rolled the rest of the way onto her back, and covered her mouth as she yawned. Her hair was stuck at an odd angle now. "What time is it?"

"Half past five," the Khajiit said. "It was said that you were working in the small hours, so this one planned accordingly. You… may have been attempting to work rather too hard."

Zaryth put both hands on her face. She didn't like falling asleep in her robes. At the same time, if J'zargo was going to be walking in here, maybe robes were called for. She replied without putting her hands down. "That's impossible, mages can't work too hard."

"That is nonsense. And you know it." The mattress sagged down by her left leg. J'zargo must have been sitting there. This was confirmed when she felt a furry tail start tickling over her shins. "Even for a mage who prizes work above all else. You work too hard, you lose sense of what that work is for, your efforts lose their edge, your results are worse for it. Do not fall victim to the need to do your heroic deeds right away."

J'zargo was probably raising some good points. But she was far too tired right now to absorb them properly. She sat up slowly and groaned under her breath. "All right, I'm going to go clean off," she mumbled. "Just… make yourself at home. Find a book. I don't know."

Then the Khajiit's tail curled up and started tickling her in the face. She promptly jumped back on her bed and started spluttering inarticulately. "Wh- whgb- fddg- what- no, wha—!"

"Just helping you wake up," he said sweetly. At least he lowered his tail afterwards. "Go clean off. J'zargo will be here."

Zaryth hauled herself out of the room and clambered down the ramp into the main stalk of the tower. The doorway she wanted was on the far side of the levitation stream, so she stepped off the edge into the open, let the spell effect catch her, and drifted out to the far side before she could rise too high. She still landed on the lip of the doorway from a few feet up. Another wake-up, maybe.

This room was at the top of another brief ramp, through another hollow branch in the stalk. Most of the water pipes in Tel Varlais connected to this one chamber. There was a stone-topped quarter-circle counter along the left wall, with a sink and wall-mounted mirror right in the middle. There was also a water-closet in a metal-screened alcove at the far end of the room. But the real point of interest in this room was on the right. A monolithic metal-lined bathtub, semicircular in shape, about eight feet in radius and two feet deep. The flat portion was up against the wall, with two faucet outputs, one low and one high. One for bathing, one for showering. The rest worked itself out.

She went through the motions of showering without really thinking about it. Within ten minutes' time, she was drifting back across the main stalk chamber to her bedroom, wearing a new set of underclothes under the same robe as before. Her hair was damp and a little heavy. Overall, she felt a whole lot fresher, which was probably conducive to better work. Which was, after all, what mattered right now.

J'zargo was reclined on her bed, one leg crossed over the other, a book held open on his lap. One of her books on the Oblivion Crisis, by the look of it. He nodded to Zaryth politely as she entered. "Feeling better?"

"Sure," Zaryth sighed. She got as far as the chair, and flopped back into it sort of sideways. She had to squirm around to make herself face the right way afterward. "Are you finding anything new in there?"

In response, J'zargo closed the book and set it aside. He didn't even bother to mark his page. "No, that was only to pass the time until your return. Now we may talk."

The shower had been nice, but honestly, the Dunmer couldn't even tell how tired she was right then. She seemed to be in a strange sort of state between alertness and total collapse. "Fine. Where do you want to start?"

"Well, we face a great problem, do we not? Alduin is setting about tearing Mundus apart, and we have not even determined how. Of this much, J'zargo is already aware. So let us start at the beginning. What do we know?"

What did they know? That was a good question, indeed. Zaryth laid a hand on her forehead and let out another sigh. "… Do you want to get a pen and paper for this?"

"Khajiit has no idea where you keep those things."

"Ggggghhh… one second." And she'd just gotten comfortable, too. This was not off to a pleasant beginning.

Two minutes later, she was back in the chair, and J'zargo was at her writing desk with a pen, inkwell and paper. "So, what do we know," he said, again.

"Alduin is back," she said. "And… We're stuck on the 9th of Second Seed. And there are magical anomalies all over the place. Shooting stars, landing everywhere. And he's using the red draugr to attack people."

"Good, good." There were some scratching noises as the Khajiit wrote the items down. Zaryth had her eyes closed, but she could hear each word being written out, plus the pauses whenever he stopped for more ink. Eventually, he said, "Continue."

"Uh… Alduin is back, red draugr, all those things… Aetherium seems to stabilize the area around it, even just as ore. We need some refined pieces to put an end to all this. And Alduin had his draugr run off with one shard. Once we get it, we can defeat Alduin for good."

"No." J'zargo's voice came sharply. That was a bit of a jolt to hear. "We do not know that. That is an assumption."

"Right, right. The Dragonborn says it'll put an end to the Shadow Unending, though, at least."

"What about that silver stuff of yours? What has he said about that?"

Zaryth smiled. She still had her eyes closed. That made it easier to envision what he was talking about. It also made her eyes hurt a little less. "It's Aetherial essence, of some variety. It seems to be some specific kind. Much more potent—sorry, that's an assumption, uh… It did close that ghost portal, though, whatever that was."

"J'zargo will write down that we have it to use, at least." There were some more scratching noises, then the Khajiit audibly leaned back in his seat and sighed slowly. "Do you know what strikes this one about our list?"

"What?"

"It is not what is _on_ the list. It is what is _not_ on the list. At its very top is that Alduin has returned, and yet there is not a single item describing what he himself has done. He has only incited these magical instabilities, and sent out the red draugr in his stead. To our knowledge, he has never personally made any appearance."

"Maybe he's hiding. I'm sure he remembers what happened the last time he went out there." Not that Zaryth had been in Skyrim for any of that. She'd been busy in Hammerfell, at the time. But everyone was well aware of what had happened between the Dragonborn and the World-Eater.

"Indeed." J'zargo put the pen down and went silent for a few more seconds. "And yet somehow, without making himself visibly known, he has demonstrated the power to stop the entire cycle of Mundus. The only acts of similar power have come from Iseus, whom I presume has been unable to locate Alduin himself. I don't suppose we know how he gained this power?"

Zaryth lowered her hands from her face, finally, and looked around the room. As she did, she was struck by a strange, self-aware feeling. How had she even gotten to this place? As recently as last month, she never would have been able to predict any of this. No matter, she supposed. She tried to focus on making a reply. "Well, whatever it is, it's not enough to make him feel like coming out of hiding."

"And we can likely assume that Alduin needs the Aetherium for nothing himself," the Khajiit added, suddenly. "It certainly serves no one any use in Dawnstar. It is remarkable that Jarl Skald has not thought that through. Why _would_ a draugr run straight into his hold with a priceless possession in tow? Does he not see that he was given it on purpose?"

"Probably not," Zaryth shrugged. "Sometimes people are very stupid."

"Jarls, though?"

"I don't think they're actually selected based on their intelligence."

J'zargo grunted in displeasure, then went silent for a few more seconds. "… So Alduin is hiding from us, and doing something the Aetherium would interrupt. There is another thing this one is noticing about our list—we have no idea how Alduin is doing this. No basis in scholarly literature, correct?"

"As far as I can tell, it's unheard of," Zaryth nodded.

"Then he must be employing some new process. And it is striking, J'zargo thinks, that while Alduin was defeated all the way back during Sun's Dusk of last year, it has taken until now for him to return and initiate the Shadow Unending. What changed?"

"Well, the Oblivion Purge, obviously." She said it without even really considering the words. That was new. She frowned to herself. "Not that we should assume that one led to the other. Alduin might have just needed a great deal of time to reconstitute himself, after his defeat. But it probably would've made it easier, whatever he did."

"So Alduin was defeated in Sovngarde—a location in Aetherius—and then Aetherius and Mundus were brought much closer together. He is not still in Aetherius, is he?"

"Well, Iseus has described himself as watching Aetherius to make sure Alduin doesn't come back into it. So I think he's on our end now."

"Then he came here. Alduin came here, by some means, in the wake of the Oblivion Purge." J'zargo turned back to look at the paper he'd been writing notes on. "The shooting stars. The anomalies. Did they begin with the Shadow Unending?"

"No, I think there were a few of them beforehand," Zaryth said. "They've simply been increasing in number, and in intensity, dramatically. I have some records of the shooting stars from before the Shadow Unending started, but they're probably incomplete. We hadn't told the dragons to start watching out for them, yet."

"So it seems to J'zargo that the only truly unprecedented thing in this sequence is the Oblivion Purge. Alduin has returned to Mundus, and is using an unheard-of power to try to destroy it, but he began doing so within several weeks of the Oblivion Purge taking place. If those two events are _not_ related, what are the odds that Alduin simply had to wait that exact length of time following his defeat in Sovngarde? That he had to wait just that long, in order to deploy a power just as unheard-of as the Oblivion Purge itself, on a totally coincidental basis?"

"So you're saying it's a fair assumption that one led to the other," Zaryth replied. Truth be told, she was rather enjoying not having to come up with all these ideas herself. She made a mental note to ask for J'zargo's counsel at the _start_ of whatever great puzzle came next for her. Not after a few solid days of fruitless reading.

J'zargo said, "The Purge has allowed for a great deal of new magic to manifest. It seems obvious enough that Alduin used some of this magic for his own purposes. For one thing, he somehow brought himself back into existence, and then returned to Mundus. For another, he gained the ability to… stop the course of the stars, and to control the red draugr." As he spoke, he turned back around and resumed writing on the paper. "And yet he is hiding. Why hide? Why not visit destruction on us personally? He is a dragon, after all."

Now it was Zaryth's turn to be sharp. "No, we don't know that. He _was_ a dragon, the last time he came to our world. He was in a dragon's form, that is. Presently, he might be something else. Or he might not have a physical form at all."

"Every creature in Mundus has a physical form," J'zargo said flatly. "Without it, they can do nothing. The only exceptions are creatures manifesting from other planes, and we know Alduin is not in Aetherius. And if he were in a province besides Skyrim, the Shadow Unending might be expected to spread there. We have heard no such reports."

"Do you suppose he's in Oblivion?"

"Unlikely. There is so little of it remaining. What does remain is under the control of five rather sympathetic Daedric Princes. … Can you imagine if he tried to hide in Meridia's realm? She would annihilate him for the draugr alone."

"But this does not answer why he is hiding. It _is_ quite un-dragon-like of him. He has been acting only through his draugr. Surely, he could do a better job of fighting us than his undead servants."

Zaryth stared into space for a few seconds, then took a breath in. "You know, the red draugr are probably a diversion. Not to keep us from finding the Aetherium—it costs barely any effort for us to go about that—but to keep us from finding _him_. I think he knows we could overpower him if we got to him personally."

"Mmm. An interesting idea." J'zargo set his pen down again. They were back in the purview of speculation. No need for him to write down more facts. "He would be wise to believe so. Iseus, Kamian, Savos Aren, the Black Machine—this one imagines we could overwhelm Alduin with numbers alone. So he is hiding somewhere. And he is employing the red draugr to divert our attention. Why is he bothering with the diversion? And why draugr? He could have tried again with the dragons. It worked for Morokei. Surely, they would be more effective."

"I don't know," Zaryth admitted. "I haven't heard anything about him from the dragons, besides sightings of his draugr. He might be in some little cave somewhere. Or he might be in an old Nordic crypt, there are plenty of those. But he's probably far away from prying eyes, underground someplace. Where the dragons can't see."

"Do you suppose he is moving from location to location, to make himself harder to find?"

"No, he'd expose himself whenever he's out journeying. And he can't teleport without leaving Mundus, however briefly. Iseus would catch him."

There was a brief pause. Zaryth paused her line of thought. They'd gotten very deep into this discussion. "As… I'm thinking about it, none of this actually answers how Alduin has been going about ending the world. So far, we've established he's hiding. What now?"

J'zargo said nothing.

A few more seconds went by. Still, nothing. Zaryth stood up.

"I'm hungry. Do you want breakfast?"

"Yes, please."

Breakfast, as it happened, was available up in the main chamber of the tower. Zaryth headed back down the ramp, then let the levitation stream carry her all the way to the top. She'd gotten a small table with a couple of chairs up here, on the opposite side of the stalk from the landing platform. It provided a nice view over the railing.

A few other things had ended up in here over the past weeks. The map from the amphitheater was sitting in its frame in front of an unused portion of countertop. Over by the sink, she'd

In any case, it took only a couple minutes' preparation for Zaryth and J'zargo to sit down with their breakfasts. Hot bean blend in a metal bowl, with hotter tea in an earthen mug. This was typical fare for her in Tel Varlais—simple, nutritious, easily prepared. Flavor was clearly optional.

J'zargo, at least, seemed to be used to it. He made it through half of his bowl without even saying anything. Eventually, he put his spoon down and commented, "Have you looked into growing more conventional plants down here?"

"In Blackreach?" Zaryth raised her eyebrows. "That wouldn't be easy. The soil's rich enough, but it's composed a little differently than soil from the surface. More importantly, there's no sunlight."

"Can you not simulate that with magelight? J'zargo knows that the Arch-Mage has a garden illuminated with it."

"Mmm, possibly. It'll be something to look into once the world's not disintegrating out there."

The Khajiit returned to his meal silently. But it wasn't very long before he spoke up again. "How did you know how to grow this tower? Does it simply come with the territory of being a Telvanni mage, or did you learn it yourself?"

Zaryth laughed lightly. "Well, uh… A bit of both, I suppose? The mushroom towers are hardly my invention. On the other hand, they typically didn't _glow_. That said, I don't think this will help with our food production. Partly because Tel Varlais is harder than its volume in wood, and partly because it's made from a blacksight mushroom. If you ate enough of it, I imagine, you'd end up going blind. We'll be fine otherwise, of course."

"Naturally." J'zargo seemed unfazed.

"I certainly never expected to have a mushroom tower underground, in any case. Once I came down here, I ended up improvising quite a bit. And… I suppose, strictly speaking, with all the buildings down here, I didn't _need_ to make my laboratory space out of a mushroom. But I did very much want to."

"Khajiit approves." He still sounded unfazed, though.

Still, Zaryth smiled warmly. "Thank you. Not many people are likely to end up seeing this tower. I'm glad it's making a good impression with its audience so far."

"It is Telvanni magic," J'zargo shrugged. "Of course we like it. To you, it may be old knowledge, but to us, it is new."

This was the first time in quite a while that anyone had commented on her Telvanni background. In fact, if memory served, the last time had been when that Altmer mage Aicantar had recognized her name from her books. That had been quite a conversation.

Which brought her right back to the other memories of that day. She added, "One thing our knowledge _didn't_ include was how to fight in the manner of warriors. Personally, I'm getting a little tired of having the limitations of illusion magic thrown in my face again and again."

J'zargo was right in the middle of eating his last spoonful of bean blend when he heard that last sentence. For some reason, it made him pause suddenly. He removed the spoon from his mouth very slowly, keeping his eyes on Zaryth the whole time, and sat back in his seat. "Are… you asking to learn more of how to fight?"

"Maybe sometime," Zaryth replied. She had to remind herself not to get self-conscious. "You learned your fighting technique from the—uh, from Iseus, if I recall?"

"Yes, though J'zargo has been sparring with Black Gears since then. Good practice." Fortunately, the question didn't seem to bother him very much. After that moment in his laboratory, when he'd described Iseus' impact on his life, Zaryth had been hesitant to bring it up.

"Why did you decide to learn it?"

The Khajiit took a long, slow sip of his tea. When he set it back down again, he stared at the mug for a few seconds, then raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. "At first, it was simply because Iseus devoted some hours of his day to physical training, and this one wanted to join in. It was better than sitting and watching, after all. But soon, it became a way of life. To be a vigilant warrior—to train, hours each day, so that when blood is at stake, those precious few seconds or minutes of combat will be spent well. Obviously, the incident with the garden underscored Iseus' point. Were it not for that training, J'zargo would be a corpse."

Zaryth nodded slowly. Then a question came into her head, and she couldn't quite hold it back in time. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

Again, J'zargo paused. That might not have been the most tactful question. But he still seemed all right for it. "… No. Not unless you count those ghosts, and those clearly had seen their deaths already. But J'zargo does not wish to be unprepared when the day comes."

The Dunmer couldn't help but chuckle a little. "You're saying it's a _when_ now? Not an if?"

J'zargo scoffed. "We live in Skyrim. Of course it is a when."

He was probably right, too. Mages led dangerous and challenging lives no matter where they lived. Working in Blackreach raised those stakes even more. And there was that whole matter where one couldn't walk ten miles through Skyrim without stumbling upon some sort of lethal threat. Zaryth finished off her tea with one long swig, then replied, "I don't know how much of that training I could commit to. But maybe you could show me how that works, sometime. You seem to have figured out the spellsword business well enough."

"If this is about J'zargo blocking that strike with the ward, that was one of Iseus' tricks, not J'zargo's. … But it is appreciated." He flashed an amiable smile, then downed the rest of his own tea and stood up. "For now, we have work to return to. Yes?"

"Mages can't work too hard," Zaryth smiled back.

"Oh, be quiet already."

There wasn't much to do for cleanup, so Zaryth filled the basin with some water and got to scrubbing the dishes clean. She loved having running water whenever she needed it, she truly did. It worked just as well on these dishes as it had on her.

While she worked, J'zargo walked in a slow, curious circle around the room's perimeter. This wasn't his first time in Tel Varlais, Zaryth knew, but it seemed to entrance him all the same anyway.

His voice called out from behind her. "What _is_ this map for?"

Zaryth didn't even need to look. She called back, "The locations of all the shooting stars that have hit Skyrim since the Purge. Numbered in chronological order."

"Since the Purge?"

"Mm hmm."

That was probably enough for the dishes. Zaryth put them aside to dry, then wiped her hands off on the hem of her robes and started off for the map.

J'zargo was standing in front of it, one arm across his chest, the other hand up at his chin. There was quite a lot to look at. The whole map was covered in numbered little dots of Aetherium ore. The work teams had had quite a lot of small pieces left over from the propylon columns, so she'd had them fashion what amounted to fingernail-size tack heads out of them, engraved and painted with sequential numbers. She thought it looked appropriately magical, at least.

"Since the Purge," the Khajiit repeated, without taking his eyes off the map. "Not since the Shadow Unending."

"There were a few that came before it, yes. That we know of." Zaryth pointed to a few locations on the map—one in Falkreath Hold, two in the Pale, one in Eastmarch, and one in the Rift. "These… are the first five. People weren't used to them yet, at that point."

"Was there anything special about them?"

Zaryth glanced at him, just for a moment. "What are you wondering?"

"It should be obvious, is it not? There is a possibility that one of the shooting stars before the Shadow Unending may be connected to Alduin's return."

"You think he rode down on one?" The Dunmer smiled mirthfully for a moment, but then sobered up and nodded in assent. "It's worth looking into, at least. We started trying to investigate these impact sites once the Shadow Unending manifested itself, but I don't think anyone ever went back and looked at the ones that came beforehand."

"Of course, it is still no more than a possibility," J'zargo said.

"Among many others, yes," she nodded. "It's only one."

"He is hiding from us, somehow. And he has locked the stars above us, somehow."

"And with no evident basis in anything we've read or heard of, he could be doing anything. He could be using his newfound Voice powers to simply tell the stars to stop. Or wielding some corrective command over Time, through his nature as a child of Akatosh, or… maybe, uh, harboring secret Daedric refugees from Iseus' onslaught, and using them to help."

J'zargo made a contemplative noise. "Yes. All valid ideas. Really, when you think about it, there's no reason to assume a connection with the shooting stars at all."

"Yes, quite."

"Very unlikely."

The two of them looked at each other silently. Then back at the map.

Fredas, 6:14 PM, 57th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Eastmarch Impact Site

"There, that's it!" Zaryth shouted to be heard over the wind. Nosqoriik banked to the right and started descending through the air, toward the crater far below.

This was the third one they'd stopped to examine. By now, they'd been out and flying for most of the day, and the Dunmer was starting to feel a little tired. That wasn't helped by the fact that the stars were already coming out. It was mid-evening, and the sky above wanted to be nighttime already. Maybe she could've slept a little better this past night.

But still, this was the third crater from Zaryth's list of pre-Shadow-Unending impacts. And already, she could tell it was different. The first had been in Falkreath Hold, and the second had been in the Rift. In both of those cases, the craters had been far away from everything. Neither of them had been particularly large, or had anything within but solid stone from the sky. And already, Zaryth could tell that this one was unlike the others—by her estimate at this altitude, the concave indent in the mountainside was easily over a mile wide. It looked practically like a natural geographic feature.

Nosqoriik continued his banking turn and made a single, complete circular pass around the crater lip. In the evening light, Zaryth couldn't see everything here perfectly—the sun, far west opposite the mountaintops, was casting huge shadows all through the crater's interior—but it didn't look like there were any red draugr, at least. After the one pass, Nosqoriik tightened his turn and took her inward, toward the center of the crater, landing perhaps three-quarters of the way down.

Zaryth didn't wait for him to do anything more. The moment they were on the ground, she hopped right off and put her feet on solid ground once again. "Thanks," she said, as she walked past the dragon's head.

"Be careful," Nosqoriik rumbled in response. "There is something amiss here."

"You can say that again," she muttered under her breath, but she was already walking towards the center. The lowest point of the crater, where the main impact would have taken place. Her feet crunched lightly over broken stone and bits of gravel on the way. They felt raw and rough, unexposed to the elements, despite being plainly outdoors. Compared to most of the mysterious magical sites she'd been to, this one really did feel quite new.

Just as a precaution, as she walked, she lit up an alteration aura in one hand, and gave a brief cast of detection—not for living things, but for dead ones. If there were red draugr here after all, this would expose them without a doubt.

Four auras appeared up ahead. Three in a cluster off to her right, and a fourth very nearby the crater's center. All of them were colored blue. Not draugr, then—simply dead bodies. The previous craters certainly hadn't had _these_. Zaryth changed her direction to start walking towards the cluster.

As she came closer by, she swallowed involuntarily. That surprised her somewhat. There was no need to be afraid of something so incapable of hurting her. Doubly not when there was a dragon nearby to he. But she was starting to feel something about this crater. It was hard to describe, but she was feeling something she'd only felt a few times in her life.

She felt terribly small. Not in the physical sense, but in a sense of being no more than a small-minded mortal. There was something about this crater that was far beyond her understanding.

The auras belonged to three skeletons, sprawled on their backs amid the rocks, all in a side-by-side row. They might have been walking towards the center of the crater when they died. There were a few burnt scraps of cloth around and atop their bones, and the bones themselves were streaked heavily with bleached white. It went without saying that these people had been the victim of some sort of fiery magic.

Zaryth cast her detection spell once again, simply to regain her bearings, then walked towards the one remaining aura's source. She could see it from a fair distance, this time. Another skeleton, this time scattered amid some dull gray and brown shapes that she quickly recognized as a suit of crudely made heavy armor. No fire for this one—all of the potentially flammable portions of the armor were clearly still intact. She saw that much without ever coming close.

She wondered who these people were. Based on how far apart they were, it didn't seem likely that they'd actually encountered one another prior to their deaths. If she had to guess, she would say that they had all been killed by some outside force at separate points in time.

There was little need to guess what that outside force might have been.

Originally, Zaryth had planned on walking over to give the fourth skeleton a closer look. But as she headed along, her path took her right by the center of the crater. And what she saw there made her stop.

There was an indentation in the ground. A perfectly hemispherical indentation, about six feet wide and half as deep, completely smooth-sided, neatly exposing a curved cross-section of underground stone. There was no way this had arisen from the impact. It looked as though someone had carved it out deliberately.

Or, more likely, as though something had landed here, and then someone had removed it from its resting place.

Zaryth crouched down on the edge of the indentation, and reached down to run her fingers over the stone. She had to correct her previous thought—this wasn't perfectly smooth after all. There were raised lines in the rock, tiny raised lines, in the shape of individual glyphs. They cut off abruptly where the indentation met the surface.

Going by touch alone, she could tell they weren't in any alphabet commonly seen in Skyrim. Not Cyrodiilic, not Dovahzul, not Daedric. Probably not Dwemer, either. But they most certainly were glyphs of some kind. All she had to do was to try and read them, based on this reverse print in the stone.

She pushed herself back to her feet, and began to walk back towards Nosqoriik. They had archaeology to do.


	45. Thorald 8

Loredas, 7:44 PM, 58th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Silent City

Thorald didn't really want to be here right now. He wanted to be out there in Skyrim, taking the fight to the red draugr. Gods knew those things deserved it.

But still, even now, Kamian was holding him in reserve. There was nothing for him to do except stick to his training and wait for something to happen. He understood the thinking there—if all of the Black Machine were out and about, there would be no one left to respond to anything big. That didn't really take the edge off the fact that he was being forced to sit around and leave all the battles across Skyrim to be waged by someone else.

On the other hand, it probably wouldn't matter for long. Based on what Zaryth had found yesterday evening, Thorald was pretty sure that their 'anything big' was coming soon.

They had the hemisphere's reproduction out in the debate hall courtyard, right underneath the sun-orb. It was a patchwork dome of reddish clay bricks, around six feet in diameter, all fitted together to make a perfectly curved surface. In the sun-orb's extreme straight-down light, the engravings on it were all visible by their shadows. It looked like it could've been the sun-orb's half-moon.

Supposedly, this reproduction was actually of the lower half of the original sphere, which meant it was upside down now. But the engravings seemed to be right side up anyway. Also supposedly, they were written in an ancient form of the Ayleid alphabet, but it mostly spelled words that nobody recognized.

At least, that was what the other Black Gears had told him. He hadn't had the chance to hear about it from Zaryth herself.

As he approached, he saw the Dunmer kneeling in the golden light, just at the dome's side. She was peering intently at one particular section of it, maybe trying to read the text. If she was doing that at nearly eight in the evening, it must not have been going very smoothly.

"Good evening," he called out, before speeding up to a jog. He hadn't gotten out of his armor for nothing.

Zaryth instantly abandoned her one-sided staring contest and pushed herself up to her feet. She started walking forwards just in time for Thorald to take her in his arms.

The feel of her body on his was as welcome as ever. She had the same robes on as always, and the more Thorald hugged her through those, the more attractive they seemed. It was all just so soft and warm. Thorald had been waiting all day to lose himself in this.

Plus, Zaryth still smelled nice. Her natural ashen scent was as strong as ever on her skin, in her robes, all over her, but there was also a distinct, fresh sort of fragrance about her. It was hard to describe. But much like the feel of the robes, he didn't question it. They were having a moment here. And he'd really missed her.

After a little while of that, the two of them pulled apart just enough to look at each other. Thorald smiled and said, "I heard you'd set this up here. It's quite a sight."

"The real thing is probably more so," Zaryth replied, glancing back over her shoulder at the patchwork dome. "Wherever it is."

"Any idea _what_ it is, exactly?"

"I have a few ideas for its context, but nothing solid. Here, take a look at this." The Dunmer turned away from him just enough to start walking back to the dome, only now she was leading him by the hand.

As he followed along, Thorald said, "I have to warn you, I haven't been reading all that many books on ancient magic as of late."

"Well, actually, my own scholarly knowledge has been… a little lacking, for this." Zaryth laughed sheepishly. She let go of his hand as they got close to the dome. Her attention was starting to shift back to it. "You're probably not much worse-equipped to study this than I am. In fact, I suspect the main advantage I have among the people of Blackreach is a generally free schedule. I've found no references to any artifact like this one in any text I've ever read, and it certainly matches nothing I've read about. The closest that any other artifact might come to this would be the Eye of Magnus, and this definitely is not that."

"How do you know?"

Zaryth paused. She was looking away from him, still staring at the markings on the dome, but her face had probably just gone amusingly blank just now. "… Well, uh… a few reasons. One is that the Psijics located and removed the Eye already, though I suppose it could always come back. Another is that it was never documented as having an engraved pattern quite like this. But most importantly is that if the Eye of Magnus were anywhere in Mundus, it would be impossible to hide. Iseus would have located it by now, if nothing else."

"All right," Thorald shrugged. "So what do you have so far?"

"Not much. I'm still struggling to translate the text on this. But I've been able to draw a few conclusions from what we have. Perhaps the most important is that all of these engravings are so clearly legible." Zaryth started walking slowly around the dome's left side. She waved vaguely at it with her arm as she continued. "All of these—all of the writing on this—it's only visible to us now because it was perfectly preserved in the impact site, where the sphere was imbedded in the ground. Now, if it had been removed by any directly physical means—even with telekinesis, or a similar sort of magic—the stone would have broken and sheared away from the sphere on its way up. But the sphere's footprint, so to speak, was left flawlessly in the ground. This leads me to believe that it was _teleported_ out. If Alduin had that capacity, he could be, indeed, hiding anywhere he possibly desires."

Thorald joined Zaryth's side as she circled around the dome. He wasn't even sure what Zaryth was actually looking for right then. He just wanted to follow along. "How would these details even show up, though? If I had these engravings on the head of a hammer, and I smashed down a stone wall with it, you wouldn't see any reverse engravings on the stone."

Zaryth nodded appreciatively. "That's very true. I think in this case, a thin layer of stone probably melted around the sphere when it landed, and then solidified around it as it cooled. By the time the sphere was removed, the surrounding stone would have fully set in place, like a metal cast."

"But with molten rock."

"Yes, exactly."

"Are you sure your book-based knowledge isn't any good for this? Casting things out of pure lava sounds exactly like a Dwemer sort of thing to do." Thorald bit his lip to hold back a grin.

The Dunmer's voice took on an indignant tone. "That's not true at all! The Dwemer had absolutely no need to do anything with stone besides carve it. With all of the underground passages they dug out, it was effortless for them to obtain the pieces they needed on the way, and melting stone doesn't actually even—" Then she stopped suddenly, and noticed the look on Thorald's face. "Oh, you were joking. Right."

"Have you considered taking a break? You might need it."

"Maybe! I don't know!" Zaryth turned away suddenly and threw her hands in the air. That was a surprise. She wasn't even going away from Thorald, exactly. More, going away from the dome. "I don't know," she repeated. "This has been… I've been working on this for days, and I have no idea. I don't… I don't know."

Thorald briskly caught up with her and took a look at her face. Whatever expression was on it now, whatever done she'd just had in her voice, it wasn't one he'd seen from her before. "Wait. Zaryth. Are… are you feeling overworked?"

"Probably! I still don't know." Zaryth abruptly turned and buried her face in Thorald's chest. She took a deep breath in against him, then a deep breath out, and then laid her hands on his shoulders for good measure. Her voice was appropriately muffled. "Uuuugh."

This was sudden, to say the least. But Thorald was fairly sure he knew exactly what Zaryth was going through right now. She was being expected to produce answers to an incredibly urgent and important puzzle, which not only was threatening all of their lives while unsolved, but was also somehow managing to push the limits of her expertise. With all that in mind, it was actually sort of remarkable that she'd stayed so composed for so long.

Naturally, Thorald just put his arms around Zaryth's back and held onto her for a little while. Her breathing gradually slowed to a more relaxed pace.

They stayed like that for a couple minutes or so, quietly embracing where they stood. Thorald's mind didn't wander very far. He was focused only on what he was feeling here and now. No need for deep contemplation. This was the time to let things be.

Zaryth eventually pulled back once again, gazing up at him with barely-focused eyes. "This place is a little crazy," she murmured. "You're aware of that, right?"

"Not to paint that as a negative of some kind, of course," the Nord replied just as softly.

At that moment, the throne room doors swung open. He saw it right over Zaryth's shoulder. Someone was walking out into the courtyard. It took a moment to recognize who it was.

"What is it?" Zaryth frowned at him for a moment, then turned to see where he was looking. She immediately stepped away once again, and waved politely in the person's direction. "Good evening!"

It was Lenve. He was carrying a thick sheaf of papers in one hand, bound with a big metal clip on the top end. It all looked very serious, whatever it was. He waved back with his free hand, and changed direction to head on towards the two of them. Once he was within talking distance, he replied, "Good evening to the both of you, as well. How are you holding up?"

Thorald took a deep breath in. "I'm doing well—"

"This is completely—" Zaryth spoke at the same time as him. They stopped and looked at each other for a moment. Then they both started laughing at the same time, which made it even worse. It took a few seconds for them to compose themselves again.

Lenve was just watching with pursed lips. He looked like he was holding back a grin.

"You first," Thorald said to Zaryth.

"Right. Uh… What I was going to say was… uh…" The Dunmer blinked once, staring quizzically off into space. "Uh… This is completely beyond my talents as a scholar, but I'm doing my best. I know it's important."

"Looks to me like you're doing a good enough job," Lenve said, pointing at the dome just beside him. "This is really quite a sight. I've never heard of anyone making a replica of an artifact like this before, and I hear a lot of things in my line of work."

This probably wasn't a good time to go on about the whole magic-puzzle thing. Thorald gestured in the direction of Lenve's papers. "Are those for your line of work too, then? They're one leather cover away from belonging in Zaryth's library."

Zaryth cracked up.

Lenve, on the other hand, was not amused. "Yes. These are for my work. If my work consists of salvaging whatever Skyrim has left us."

And just like that, everything changed. Thorald didn't know what exactly this was, but he'd been there in Castle Dour to talk about Skyrim's politics. All he knew for sure right now was that they were fractured. That there was a rift between the people of Skyrim, and not even the fall of Ulfric Stormcloak himself had been enough to seal it.

He'd been waiting for something like this. For the politics of Skyrim to finally catch up with them. That sheaf of papers was suddenly looking a lot more ominous.

Zaryth glanced between the two of them curiously. "What, uh… what's this about, exactly?"

"The jarls of Skyrim are holding their Moot soon," Lenve said grimly. "Very soon. Twelve days from now, in fact. We've been hoping Elisif would get the majority vote, but… that's probably not going to happen."

"I… I'm sorry, I don't even know who that is," Zaryth shook her head and offered an empty-handed shrug.

Even now, that was a little surprising. Not that she didn't know Elisif by name, but that she left her reply there—as opposed to proclaiming that she didn't know _or_ care. If the College of Winterhold was anything to go by, the really serious mages of Tamriel weren't supposed to do politics. Maybe the problems installing the propylon columns had gotten her to shift some attention towards that.

The Bosmer sighed and folded his arms. His papers were sticking out from underneath his right elbow. At least they weren't spilling everywhere. "Jarl Elisif is in charge of Solitude. Widow of High King Torygg, supporter of the Empire, supporter of Blackreach. We all sort of expected her to become High Queen after him, but chances are, Jarl Brunwulf of Windhelm is going to get the majority vote. If that happens, Alftand is good as gone."

Zaryth stared blankly. "… Why?"

"Because some of the jarls, including him, don't recognize Noster as one of them. And if he's not, Blackreach Hold isn't a hold, and Alftand actually belongs to Jarl Korir. They can just order us to hand the city over."

Thorald swallowed. Even after all that had happened so far, the Nord had never heard it said in quite those terms.

This time, Zaryth's reply came with a bit of trepidation. "But… what about Blackreach? Are we going to be all right?"

Lenve made a face. "Probably? … Sort of? We can seal off the Alftand exit just fine, the Great Lifts are all hidden, and no one even _knows_ about the Tower of Mzark. And we're certainly self-sufficient down here, by now. But at that point, we'd be basically enemies with the rest of Skyrim. It might even spark another civil war."

"Which Skyrim doesn't have the strength for," Thorald cut in. "Especially on the Empire's side. Their soldiers are all in Cyrodiil."

"Not to mention that Alftand would be doomed," Lenve added.

Zaryth turned away and put her hands on her forehead. "Ugh. This is insanity. How many impossible problems are you people going to pile on me today?"

"Hey. You don't have to solve the political one." Thorald put a gentle hand on Zaryth's arm. Not exactly holding onto her, more just laying his fingertips on her robes. "Don't worry about it. We have Lenve here for that. Right, Lenve?" He made it a question with his voice, but the look on his face pretty solidly made it a statement.

Fortunately, Lenve took the hint. He nodded quickly. "He's right, Zaryth. This isn't something for you to need to worry about. Just keep doing what you can. I have these… papers, here…" He unfolded his arms and gave the papers in question a quick look over. "Inventory lists for Alftand, basically. The plan right now is that if Brunwulf gets the crown, we'll move anyone down to Blackreach who wants it. So we're moving some supplies down ahead of time. It's far from ideal, but if we lose control of Alftand, the least we can do is to try not to abandon everyone who's living in it now."

Zaryth, without removing her hands from her forehead, asked, "What's so bad about Alftand changing hands, again?"

"Well, it'd end up being run by Jarl Korir," Lenve replied. "Have you ever been to Winterhold, Zaryth?"

"Mmh."

"The tiny little handful of buildings out in front of the College?"

"Yes."

"He runs _that_. That's how good he is at running a city. The man wasn't around for the Great Collapse, but he hasn't even rebuilt a single gods-damn building this whole time. That would be the man running Alftand."

Zaryth lowered her hands and turned around suddenly. "You're going to get all the valuable machinery out of there, right? You're not going to let him _sell_ it, are you?"

In response, Lenve wagged the sheaf of papers at her wordlessly. He might have been smirking a little.

"Right. That's something, at least." The Dunmer started to turn away again, but stopped halfway, facing Thorald. The two of them exchanged a brief glance. She sighed again. "This is absurd. I can't deal with politics on top of this."

"Don't worry about it," Lenve said again, gently. "You have your work, I have mine. And I'm happy to be doing this, anyway. I'm the Steward. It's sort of my purpose in _being_ here."

Thorald asked, "You were one of Iseus' friends before you came here, right?"

The question seemed to catch him off-guard a little. He opened his mouth silently, eyebrows raised, before just nodding. "Yes. Yes, I was. I… I think I might be the only person down here he didn't recruit on purpose."

"Wait, really?" Zaryth gave him a sidelong glance. "What, did you just wander down here by accident?"

"Sure, that. Yes." The Bosmer grinned mirthfully. "Ahhh… No, we met when he was on his mission for the Thalmor Embassy. I was actually working there, at the time, as an inside helper." He paused. "… So, uh, essentially, he saved my life after all that, and when he came to me later asking for my help running a hold, I said, why not? It's been a good chance to put some of my ideas of social policy to use."

Thorald had heard some of that story before. But the last part was new. Mainly, he was glad to change the subject off the big messy problems they were all dealing with now. "For… uh… you mean for Alftand, right?"

"Mainly, yes. Down here… well, mainly, down here, I just look after the logistics for all of you." He smiled again, this time more just warmly. "But look at this place. We started here with essentially nothing. This place was a ruin. The Silent City was actually literally silent. Look how far we've come."

Thorald actually did stop and look around. He saw Lenve in front of him, and Zaryth beside him, and the clay dome just a stone's throw away. And he saw the debate hall courtyard, with its glowing sun-orb above, and its starry ceiling above that. He could even see out into the city from here, through the hall's front archway, where the expanse of buildings faded into the brilliant cyan fog.

This place had indeed been a ruin, once. Not even a year ago. This city had been an abandoned Falmer-infested ruin back then. And Thorald himself had been a prisoner.

He wondered what he would've thought back then, if someone had told him everything that was to come. Probably, it would've just sounded ridiculous. He was in a secret magical cavern spanning three holds of Skyrim, full of old Dwemer ruins, now being used as an elite military stronghold. He'd fought his way through Thalmor soldiers, through ghostly Dremora hordes, through dozens of bloodthirsty Falmer, and more he couldn't even think of right then. He'd actually gotten to ride a dragon, at one point. And he was in love with a Dunmer mage who was two hundred years older than him.

But still, his earlier self might've liked to know what was waiting for him. He hadn't thought he'd ever feel this way about anything again.

Zaryth spoke up. "Personally, I'm just happy I got to make a mushroom tower. I always wanted to do that."

Thorald laughed out loud. "Oh, gods. Couldn't have picked a much better place to do that one, huh?"

"If you two don't mind, these papers really need to get over to Alftand. I have a shuttle to ride." Lenve didn't wait for a reply. He just started walking off for the arch.

The Nord called out after him, "Have fun!"

Lenve replied without looking, "Count on it!"

And then he was gone once again. Zaryth stood there silently at Thorald's side, looking away from him, over at the dome.

After a few seconds, Thorald walked over and put an arm around her shoulders. "He did have a point, you know. You shouldn't worry about it."

"No, I can just worry about this instead." Zaryth gestured up and down at the dome. "I wish I knew what it said on it."

Thorald stopped and thought about that for a second. He was struggling with… something, here. Actually, he realized, it just didn't make sense as a concern.

"You really think it'll matter that much? I don't think it's going to have some kind of instructions or something on it." He put on a big, deep, dramatic voice. "Take this very special sphere to _this_ specific remote location, and use it to lock up Aetherius over Mundus, and whatever you do, do _not_ recite these magical words that will make the sphere explode forever, blah blah blah Dovahzul." Then back to his normal voice again. "Is that what you're expecting?"

Once Zaryth was done laughing, she shook her head and said, "I really don't know. This is the best I have right now for answers. But it's a dead end. For all we know, half of these are nonsense words."

"I'm just saying, you might be looking for your answers in the wrong place. We've learned that Alduin acquired a special spherical artifact, about six feet wide, and he teleported it away to some hidden location, and it's probably the reason why he has all these powers we've never heard of before. Isn't that good enough?"

"Well, no, because we still haven't _found_ the damn thing. It might even teleport away if we do find it."

Thorald squinted at her. "Do I need to repeat the special instructions?"

"No, thank you," she said sourly, but still sort of grinning anyway. "You see what I mean, about my not being much better-equipped to handle this than you are? It's simply too strange a problem for my usual knowledge to matter."

"Well, take it as an opportunity to hone your problem-solving technique. This is a dead end, so backtrack and try some other way. … Plus, if you haven't already, you could try writing down all the text and showing it to Farengar in Whiterun. I hear he's well-connected."

Zaryth smirked wryly at the mention of Farengar's name. "Yes, that's one way of putting it. But all right. I'll try and put that to use."

The two of them stood there for another minute or so, just gazing at the dome where it lay on the floor. Thorald, for his part, was barely paying attention to it. Part of him was wondering what the actual sphere would look like, in the event that anyone ever got to see it, but mostly he was still just thinking about how unrecognizable his life here had become since half a year ago. Back then, Blackreach Hold had barely even been conceived of as an idea, let alone given that name.

Eventually, Thorald said, "If you want to get back to your tower…"

"What about you?"

"I'd been about to say something about that." That made him smile. There was something really uniquely nice about being expected that way. "I'm done with work for the day. No one needs me for anything, at least that we've planned for."

Zaryth pondered it for a moment, then shrugged and returned the smile. "Sounds good to me. Let's be on our way, shall we?"

The walk out of the city was as peaceful as ever. At this time of day, the Black Machine—or the ones of them who weren't staying in other cities right now—were all in from their various daily goings-on. Quite a few were out of their armor by now. Thorald exchanged a few greetings with people as he headed along, but as usual, nobody stopped him for anything. He and Zaryth just walked right on out past the city outskirts.

The silhouette of Tel Varlais emerged from the fog very gradually. At first, while they were still nearer the debate hall it was just a slightly brighter and bluish spot amid the cyan haze. Then it slowly sharpened into a big upper portion and a small lower portion, and then it took on visible edges, and then the tendrils became visible. Thorald was used to it by now—his first visit had been ten whole days ago—but the sight still captivated him every time.

Once they were out past the buildings of the Silent City, and the mushroom tower was becoming clearly visible ahead of them, Zaryth spoke up again. "I always wanted to make one of these," she said. "But there was always one particular problem. Mushroom towers don't exactly _move_."

"A frequent drawback of buildings," Thorald said mildly.

"It's true, though. I never really…" A note of hesitance entered the Dunmer's voice. Maybe this was going to be important. "I never thought I'd want to stay anywhere for so long. That'd mean calling someplace home. And why would I want to do that, when there's a world to go explore?"

Thorald kept his eyes on the tower ahead as he walked. "Mmm, I can think of a few reasons."

"I certainly couldn't have, until recently. I mean… I'll admit that the glowing giant mushrooms made for an attractive opportunity." She smiled a little, half-guiltily. "But… I don't know. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

And there was Thorald's invitation to speak his thoughts. This would be good.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he started. "It's something I've thought about plenty myself. I'm sure you've noticed how relaxed the mood is down here. Not very rigorous, for an elite army, right?"

"Well, you do all train a lot. But yes. Everyone's so _nice_. It's uncanny."

The Nord nodded in acknowledgment. "I think there are a couple of reasons for that. When Iseus set this place up, he did it so that we'd all be encouraged to treat each other well. You know, to base our interactions on cooperation, instead of on competition. And that's important, because the very first mission we did was to slaughter a hundred mages without a fight."

Zaryth returned the nod. "Yes, I keep hearing about that now and then. Wasn't it a hundred and one?"

"Including their commander, yes. You have a good memory." He smiled a little as he spoke. "But, uh… It's important, because we're already out there literally cutting throats. We've basically thrown honor out the window. So without that to protect us, we've had to be careful not to tear ourselves apart with callousness—and not to end up doing more violence than we actually need to. All of that is one reason for it being nice down here.

"The second reason is because none of us really have anywhere else to go. I was in the Legion, once. The 64th Nordic Legion, to be precise. Those were very different days. Much harsher, much more disciplined. Of course, I, uh… I was only in active service for four years. We were hurting for manpower during the Great War, I was in their reserve. But basically everyone in the Legion intended to hang up their uniform once their duty was done. Even the ones who wanted to do nothing with their lives but fight. They were out there defending their homes. Of course they'd want to go back in the end."

A few seconds went by. They were still approaching the tower. Zaryth glanced at him and asked, "So what about now?"

"Well…" He took a deep breath in. "Now I'm in the Black Machine. The thing is, we work here, but we live here, too. Many of us either have no home on the surface to return to, or have no inclination to return anyway. Even in my case. Assuming we end up defeating the Thalmor, and Skyrim no longer needs us… that'll be a long, long time from now. Blackreach is my home. And it's the home of everyone else down here. So of course we're nice. We're not just an army in the end, we're a community. We have to be."

"And now I'm in it," Zaryth said. She immediately winced and shook her head. "I… oh. I can't believe I just said that. I feel really strange right now."

Thorald pointed to the tower ahead. It was close enough now to really loom right over them. "Well, welcome home, Zaryth. We're really glad to have you."

Zaryth started to say something more, but then suddenly turned and pulled Thorald into a big tight hug. She held on for a good long while, not saying anything, just breathing slowly and keeping her arms around him. There wasn't much to do but hug back and wait for her to have enough.

Not that the Nord was complaining. He could get used to this.

This time, instead of just pulling away, Zaryth leaned up and gave him a long, slow kiss first. It was as warm and delicate as she'd ever been. When she finally did let go, Thorald was feeling a whole lot better about this important moment of theirs.

Then she smiled softly and said, "You've made it really great for me. Thanks for that."

"Oh, it's my pleasure," Thorald replied cheerfully, before resuming his walk up to the tower. He could see the front door from here. "Believe me. I haven't had this much fun in years."


	46. Ria 8

Loredas, 6:23 PM, 65th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Jorrvaskr

"So, let me get this straight. The netch actually tossed the sabre cat through the air? Like a punt?"

"True as can be."

"Aye, sure, and Azura is my step-sister." The bearded Nord exhaled sharply and shook his head. "This is the problem with this Shadow Unending stuff. You can just make up all the stories you like, and no one can even argue with it."

"I'm glad you have such faith in me, Torvar," Ria replied flatly, before taking another sip of her mead.

Torvar was one of the longer-running Companions in their hall. He'd been around for years, easily. Definitely a lot longer than Ria had been. In fact, the only reason he didn't have a really senior position for it was because of his attitude. He was only here and fighting alongside them because he was good at it, and because it paid for more drink. He wasn't much for taking care of things. If his annoyingly unkempt big brown beard didn't say that, his penchant for sitting around and filling up on drink certainly did. Actually, he pretty well admitted it himself.

Anyway, he wasn't really getting in people's way, and that was what counted. Everyone was having a good time in here. Not that there were that many Companions in right now—about ten or so, including Ria and her recent company—but ten people at a table was plenty enough for a good evening. The hearth was blazing, the food was hot, the mead was plentiful, and her company couldn't have been better.

Well, maybe Torvar could have. But besides him. Still mostly pretty good.

They'd returned from their trip to Eastmarch late last night. On the way back, they'd fought off a good handful of wild beasts, watched a nighttime shooting star land somewhere on the side of the Throat of the World, and actually briefly gotten lost during some particularly foggy weather. That entire job had been an incredible ordeal. Ria had never been so glad to be back in Jorrvaskr.

Torvar shook his head and returned slowly to his own drink. "I will say this," he murmured. "Things _are_ getting a little hard to manage out there."

But before Ria could answer, someone sat down heavily on her left side. It was Erik. He was already pouring himself a drink too. "Hey, there," he grinned. "How's my favorite draugr-fryer?"

The Imperial groaned under her breath. "Oh, gods, no. That can't be my new title. I've never had a title, don't do this to me."

"No, it has a nice ring to it! Ria Draugr-Fryer. It has such a nice cadence with the syllables. Draugr-Fryer. Say it with me! Draugr—"

"Did you get a head start on the drinking today?" She gave him a very pointed look. But then she immediately broke into a smile too. "In all seriousness, I don't want to be known just for the sword. That's not fair, is it? We're supposed to earn our titles."

"We're also supposed to want them," Torvar commented, leaning over Ria's right side to make himself heard over the clamor of the hall. "Vilkas and Farkas never had titles. Well, excepting Vilkas being Harbinger, but you get the idea."

Erik said, "I think Vilkas' title might have actually been 'and Farkas'."

Ria opened her mouth to reply, but she was cut off by a huge, bellowing voice from across the table: " _YES!_ Tell it again! I must hear!"

One of the Companions, some huge shaggy-haired Nord whose name Ria couldn't remember right now, was grabbing Athis around the shoulders and shaking him good-naturedly. Athis looked a little affronted, but most everyone else had quieted down too.

"Aye, tell it," Erik called over. "I want to hear about that arrow!"

Athis ignored that last remark, and squirmed his way out from the huge Nord's grip. "Is—" He righted himself with a deep breath. "Is there any reason you lot always come to _me_ for the stories?"

Torvar laughed loudly. "You're so good at them!"

"That doesn't even mean anything—" The dark elf began to shake his head.

Then Ria cut in suddenly. "Athis! We enjoy your perspective as a sort of outsider on Nordic things. You make us think about things we usually just take for granted. Not that it means you can't be one of us, but you just think more about how we work."

Everyone went silent for a few seconds.

Then Torvar pointed at her and exclaimed, "Aye, what she said!" And they all went back to cheering and laughing.

"All right, all right." Athis took another deep breath in. "So this was in Eastmarch, and _before_ the thing with the netches—nobody ask me about the netches—" He ignored everyone's raucous reaction and just kept going. "Out there in the big basin, you know, steam everywhere, broken rocks, none of us could see a damn thing more than fifty feet out. By the time we got close to the crater lip, the sun was setting, the stars were out, you know how the stars are these days, they were out, and we were ready for the draugr to come. Only problem was, the draugr were ready for us too."

At this point, everyone had quieted down again. This was worth just listening to. Even Ria was paying rapt attention, and she'd _been_ there for it.

What followed was an incredibly detailed description of the whole encounter, from start to finish. Athis had a way of giving everything its fair due. So he talked about how the draugr were cunning ambushers, but how they were no match for the Companions in a straight fight. And he talked about the sheer damage wrought by Selthrei's power, but he made it very clear that Ria was still one of their group, and still relied on them for protection. Ria appreciated that. Her reputation around here was getting strange enough already.

As it went on, the story became more and more spirited, and everyone started reacting in kind. This was how it went. Athis was picking up momentum, going from one event to the next, every blow that he'd seen done, and a few that he hadn't. And the rest of the Companions couldn't hear enough of it. When it got to the part of Ria impaling one draugr and lightning-bolting another with her sword still through the first, everyone just looked at her and gave an approving congratulations. And that was new. No one had wanted to credit her with Selthrei's power before now.

Torvar leaned over again and said, "So that actually happened, huh?"

"Why, is it really that good?" Ria kept her voice low. Athis was still going, after all. Starting on the part with them going inside the crater.

"Sounds like it," Torvar shrugged. "Who doesn't like a little lightning now and then?"

Athis' long tale ended with the one last craven draugr sending them all falling into the quarry pit—and Ria trading a single attack with it, her sword for its arrow. It was a fitting end for such a tale, for the draugr to try to get the last word in, only to be bested by the power of the Companions anyway. When it got to the part about Ria hitting the draugr in the throat, everyone outright cheered. Ria herself had to grin at that part. It just felt right.

"Now," Athis said, "that's the fighting we did, and _don't_ ask about the netches! We didn't score that kill."

Obviously, this netch thing was going to turn into the next running joke around here. Everyone was laughing hard. The huge Nord slammed his fist on the table a couple times just out of mirth.

From the middle portion of the table, someone—Njada, actually—shouted, "Hey, Tam! You too drunk to carry a tune yet?"

Everyone laughed at that, even Ria. Especially Ria. Tam was one of their newer recruits, and one of maybe three people in Jorrvaskr who were any good with a lute. She was also completely hopeless when it came to drink, especially for a Nord. Two mugs' worth of mead and she was as good as out for the night.

Tam was way on the far end of the table, where the C-shape actually ended. She grinned and raised the steel tankard in her hand. "First one! I can still feel my fingers!"

More laughter. Ria cleared her throat and took another swig of mead. She knew where this was going. She called back, "Then put that down and get to playing!"

They kept a fair few instruments in the hall for this exact reason. Tam went over to fetch her lute of choice from a smaller table nearby, and walked out in front of the hearth, holding up a hand for everyone to quiet down.

"I got a question for all of you," she said. "Who wants to hear some history?"

The response was a unanimous all-out cheer, no surprise there. Without further ado, she raised her lute, played a few chords to start, and began with some eagerly melodic words. Naturally, just about everyone quickly picked it up and started singing along. They all knew this one. It was The History Lesson.

"In long ago days, a Nord king did once rule

Whose reign was known only as bloody and cruel

He ruled over Skyrim with an iron-clad fist

And put in the ground all who dared to resist.

Every man soon was the king's enemy

And so he did issue a royal decree:

If anyone wishes to challenge my reign

Then visit my throne and be honorably slain.

But who could defeat this one tyrant so vile

Whose heart beat with only the need to defile?

Every warrior who faced him met all the same fate

Till the Companions came in, and chopped off his head!

They chopped off his head! One stroke, he was dead!

They left him in pieces, the ground painted red!

With honor in their hearts, and with steel to dread

The Companions came in, and chopped off his head!"

"The ancients of Skyrim saw nothing but war

The men and the elves crossed their blades to take more

But through all the madness, one wise man did ask

To prove our own worth, is there some better task?

A great dwarven architect designed a test

To see which of the two races truly was best

A labyrinth for champions to prove their own mettle

All the trials of war, this one score would settle.

The champion of Nords fought to victory there

But the elven competitor said it was unfair

He mounted his horse, to his armies he would ride

Then the Companions came in, and chopped off his head!

They chopped off his head! One stroke, he was dead!

They left him in pieces, the ground painted red!

With honor in their hearts, and with steel to dread

The Companions came in, and chopped off his head!"

"It was dark times in Skyrim, when thieves controlled all

With goodness discarded for stolen gold's thrall

But one day, the royal prince took to the streets

On a journey to understand honor's defeat.

Soon, he crossed paths with a thief, and asked why

But he was ill-prepared for the man's sharp reply:

Do you not understand why we live this low life?

It's all your own fault, you created this strife.

This thief was a master of his trade, it was true

But the prince, he looked back on his life, and did rue

And this one simple thief became a mentor himself

Till the Companions came in, and chopped off his head!

They chopped off his head! One stroke, he was dead!

They left him in pieces, the ground painted red!

With honor in their hearts, and with steel to dread

The Companions came in, and chopped off his head!"

The song finished with a roar of revelry and laughter, and a whole lot of drinks held high in the air. Ria loved a story with a happy ending.

Tam seemed to be done for the moment. Or for the night, since she was going back to her own drink right then. But that was fine. Now was the time to enjoy the moment.

After a minute or two, Erik said over the din, "Hey, Ria! I just realized. I can't think of if you've cut off any heads with Selthrei yet."

"Oh, good question! Huh." Ria put a hand to her chin thoughtfully. It also doubled as an opportunity to wipe the excess mead from the corners of her mouth.

Then she was jolted out of her seat.

For a split second, she wasn't sure what exactly it was. She only knew that her chair had tipped backward, and she was falling out of it. There were noises throughout the room, but in that split second, she couldn't quite tell what they were from. Then she landed on the floor, and felt it shaking beneath her.

It lasted for only a few seconds. By the time she'd gotten back up, it was already done. Practically everything on the tables had been knocked over. The room was a real mess in general, now. But she was in here with nine other Companions, and they were all getting up and drawing their weapons. They knew what to do.

"We've got company," Erik said, a little unsteadily.

Ria nodded, then pulled Selthrei forth and pointed it at the doors. "Then let's give them a greeting! Companions, with me!"

There wasn't that much point in saying it. Everyone was going for the doors anyway. But if they were going to have a fight tonight, it couldn't hurt to keep the mood alive a little.

On the way out, Erik nudged her. "Hey. Try not to steal all my fun this time, right?"

"No promises," Ria shrugged airily. She was ready for this. Full and burning with fiery drink, holding a sword in her hand, entering battle alongside her Shield-Siblings. The fact that her sword was Shor's artifact just made it better. Whoever—or whatever—was out there, it was going to regret attacking Whiterun.

Then she pushed open the doors, and came out onto the porch. The whole city was visible from here. And the landscape beyond.

She stopped. Her sword fell loosely to her side.

It was out past the western walls, on the horizon, right in the way of the sun. A gigantic black triangle, like a mountain with a flaming peak. Right out there on the plain, burning bright, sending a dark gray cloud up into the sky above.

Ria stood still, in silent shock, for a few seconds. Then she realized what she was looking at.

It wasn't on the horizon—it _was_ the horizon. There was an actual, honest, full-size mountain out there… no, not a mountain. An erupting volcano.

She turned slowly and looked at Erik beside her. "So. Recognize this one from your maps?"

Erik swallowed, blinked once, then said, "I'm _not_ just seeing this, then. Not a skooma dream."

Down in the city below, a noise was starting to build up. People were opening doors, coming out onto the streets, seeing what was going on outside. Ria could see some of them from up here. They were coming out onto the streets, and they were seeing a volcano out of nowhere outside the city. And they were reacting to it. A slow, gradual swell of sound, building up as the seconds passed. The sound of thousands of voices, exclaiming and shouting and screaming, all as one.

And the volcano was still erupting. The fire on top was spreading higher and wider, the cloud of smoke was spreading outward. The cloud of ash. Pretty soon, it was going to start blocking out a few of the early stars in the sky.

This thing couldn't have been ten miles outside the city. The ash was going to come here soon. And here Ria was, standing here outside the doors of Jorrvaskr, alongside all of her Shield-Siblings. All of them, with all their power, they were just standing here helplessly and watching Whiterun fall to ruin.

Because what could they do? They were warriors. They were fighters. And this wasn't something they could fight. They could just as soon fight the sunrise and sunset. Today, they were just as powerless as everyone else.

Someone shouldered their way between Ria and Erik, half-walking, half-stumbling out onto the pathway outside. It was Athis. He got almost to the top of the stairs down to the Wind District, and then just fell on his knees and stared.

"Gods," Erik breathed. "What are we going to do?"

That was a good question. In fact, it was a _very_ good question.

Ria slowly sheathed her sword. Took a deep breath in, and a deep breath out. "All right, listen," she said. Her voice didn't sound right in her own ears. It sounded sort of distant. "No matter what's going to happen out there, we don't know enough to act right now. Let's get down to the gates, and see what the guards need."

Everyone else was still too stunned to say anything in reply. But Ria didn't wait for them. She strode right past Athis, down the stairs, and into the city of Whiterun. Maybe today wasn't the day to be a warrior. But it sure as Oblivion wasn't the day to stand still!

As she went down into the Gildergreen circle, Erik kept up by her side. He said, "I don't suppose we can throw down a few dozen portals to get everyone out again?"

Ria didn't stop walking, or even look. She shrugged. "I don't think Farengar can offer up his soul twice!"

This close to Dragonsreach, there weren't many people out on the streets. But the rest of the district was all around them, and the route down to the city gates was long. And it was full of people. As she came to the first corner, Ria did glance behind her. Most of the Companions had come along. She counted seven of them. That was probably enough for… something, anyway.

Then she came around the corner, and looked down the street to the Plains District. It was completely crammed full of people. Somehow, without anyone telling them to, the entire city had apparently decided to all try and go out the gates, all at once. Or presumably that was where they were headed. But Ria was looking down this street, and it was chaos. People were pouring out of the buildings, running all through the same path, bumping and jostling into each other, crowding up at the intersections… it was chaos. The noise of panic was still rising.

And the ash was spreading more through the sky. Ria wasn't feeling a lot of wind out here. She had a feeling the ash was just going to spread out, and out, and out. And pretty soon, Whiterun would be buried in it.

What did everyone think they were doing, trying to flee the city? They wouldn't get a mile out before the ash came down on them.

"We're never going to get to the guard barracks," Erik said. "I presume that's why you wanted to go down by the gates?"

Ria nodded. "Aye, that was the idea. We… we might be in trouble."

But there was nothing to do but move forward. Forward, down into the streets, where the crowds were. If there were guards, she wasn't even seeing them. Maybe they'd already run off. It would make sense. Better they try and live than try and manage these crowds, right?

Just as they began to reach the crowds themselves, Ria shouted over the din, "Split up into pairs! Go down the side streets, get anyone who's not already out here! And watch out for looters!"

Couldn't be too careful. Vacant unlocked houses everywhere, thieves with more greed than common sense, it wasn't a good recipe.

Naturally, Ria's partner of choice was still Erik. The two of them turned wordlessly and headed down the first corner they saw, into a spacious alley between buildings. This wasn't going to be easy. All the doors on all the buildings were closed, and Ria didn't exactly have the ability to do a life detection spell. As they strode past the different houses here, she was trying to see if anyone was inside, and it wasn't working.

Just to make sure, she pulled out her sword on the way, and said, "Selthrei! Can you do a life detection spell?"

Nothing. Ah, well. Worth trying. Even if Erik was giving her a look now.

She wasn't even clear on if a warrior could get to Sovngarde by dying from a force of nature. Even if it was while trying to protect people. If they couldn't, well… Sovngarde's loss, maybe.

That ash was still spreading through the evening sky. Blotting out the stars, one after another. Ria couldn't imagine they had more than ten or fifteen minutes before it got here. Maybe more like five, she couldn't judge the distance that well. But this wasn't going to be good. It was coming up, all over the place from the fire of the volcanic peak outside, filling the sky with its column—

Ria stopped. There was more than one big column of smoke. There was a second one coming from inside the city.

She exchanged a glance with Erik. No words needed to be said. They took off at a sprint.

It would have been nice to see this _before_ she'd split up with the rest of the group. But if there was a fire in Whiterun, it couldn't have been in a much better city for it. They had so much water, it was crazy. If nothing else, they could keep the blaze from spreading to any other buildings.

The street at the end of the alley was just as full of fleeing people as the one before. Ria remembered to sheathe her sword as she emerged into it. Swords were dangerous, and not good at putting out fires.

Gods, none of this felt real. She was going to have to catch up on her life a whole lot later on.

The smoke column was coming from some building over by the eastern wall. There was a whole tangle of streets to get through on the way there, and Ria took them at as fast a sprint as she could without slamming into anyone. Which she still sort of did, a couple times. Didn't matter. She kept running, they kept running. She went across the streets, they went towards the gates. They were all probably just as doomed, either way. For some reason, Ria just didn't care right then.

It took maybe two or three minutes for her to get there. By the time she did, the house was already engulfed in flame. It was a two-story thing, and there were flames all over the lower one. All from inside, pouring out the windows, sending thick black smoke spewing into the air. Probably an accident, Ria thought. Probably from the earthquake. Some burning logs from the hearth, spilled out onto the floor, maybe caught fire on a rug. If anything, she was surprised it'd only happened here.

The city guards already had a bucket chain from the nearest water channel, but it wasn't doing much more than keeping the flames from spreading out. Ria could hear the guards shouting to each other, over the sound of the crowds, over the sound of the volcano, of the house fire here, all of it. It wasn't until Ria got close that she heard the voices of the people still in the house. Up on the second floor, screaming words she couldn't understand from out the window.

Ria didn't slow down until she was within speaking distance of the guards. But none of them even paid attention to her. They were very, very busy.

From one of the second-story windows, right above the front door, a female voice yelled out, "It's getting too hot! We can't …" There was a couple seconds' pause. "Can't breathe! Please!"

One of the guards yelled back, "Hold on! We sent for Farengar! He'll be here any minute!"

Any minute? They didn't have a minute. These people were going to die just from the smoke in there. It was coming out the upstairs windows too. And these windows were clearly, obviously too small to climb out.

She didn't know what Farengar would do here anyway. Frost spells? Try and put out the fire that way? Didn't matter. There was no time.

"Oh, where's Athis when you need him?" Erik groaned.

Ria shook her head. They weren't going in there. Not into that fire. It was down to her and Erik, here and now, they had to do something. She had to do something.

The people inside this building had to get out. The first floor was already covered in flames. No exits there. The windows on the second floor were too small to climb out. No exits there either. These people were penned in. They were stuck, and they were going to die if they didn't escape, and…

Well, this was obvious. Ria drew Selthrei once again and shouted at the top of her lungs, _"HEY, LADY! STAND BACK!"_

That was all the warning she could give. The next thing she did was to throw her sword straight at the second story windowsill. It thudded hard into the wooden frame.

Then she closed her hand into a fist.

The blast of lightning tore the entire wall to shreds. The whole window, and its frame, all the wooden supports and wattle-and-daub paneling around it, it was all engulfed in the frenzied storm. Ria tried to keep the lightning from going forward, from going inside the house, but she couldn't tell if it worked. All she saw was the wall being consumed in a release of energy even greater than the fire below. When it was done, there was nothing left but a smoldering hole with smoke pouring out. Easily enough to jump through.

Just to make sure, Ria called up, "You're safe now! Come on down!"

The first person down was a child. A boy, no older than ten. He more fell than jumped, and landed on his knees and elbows on the road, coughing hard. That fall must've hurt a lot, but it didn't stop him coughing. The next person down was a woman, wearing a dirty reddish dress. Both of them were looking rather covered in soot.

As Ria summoned and sheathed her weapon once again, a couple of the guards peeled off from the bucket chain and went to tend to the two family members. Ria called over to them, "Was there anyone else?"

The woman, presumably the mother, was too busy coughing to verbally answer. But she must've heard, because as one of the guards set about picking her up onto his shoulders, she shook her head. Good enough, then. Ria and Erik could move on.

Which they did, straight down the next side road, no closer to the gates. Once they were out of view of the fire, Erik said, "I don't know how much I can keep crediting your sword. Good work on that, Ria."

"Yeah, well, when all you have is a sword," she smirked mirthlessly for a second, before resuming her hunt. She _hoped_ not all of the challenges remaining in the city would be as dramatic as that burning building. For the residents' sake, if nothing else.

Then she looked up at the sky again, and her pace slowed to a halt. The ash was hanging directly over the city of Whiterun. It was going to come down on them in a minute, tops.

Erik stopped and looked too. "We could always hide in one of the buildings," he suggested, but the look on his face said it all. They were looking at their death.

"Maybe we're out of luck this time," Ria said. The ash was coming down visibly, rolling in dark burnt clouds, coming closer and closer to the city. She could actually visibly see it happening. The whole sky was going black from it.

"Maybe. But…" Erik sighed. "I don't want to quit now. I don't. We haven't even finished with the draugr, have we?"

The ash was about to start landing on the city. Ria just knew it. She was counting the seconds at this point. "At this point," she began to say, "I've spent so long around the knowledge of my own—"

She was interrupted by a huge, echoing noise. A clap of thunder, cutting through the air. A pale blue wave of energy crossed through the sky overhead, and the ash receded by a huge margin. All across the sky. All over the city. A whole swathe of ash cloud had just vanished into thin air.

"Oh, Talos," Erik murmured, staring into the sky with wide eyes. "That was a shout."

Ria looked at him, then at the sky again herself. In that moment, everything was quiet. And it took her a moment to realize why. The house fire was still roaring behind them, the volcano was still rumbling in the distance… but the noise of panic had stopped. Everyone had fallen silent. They were all just waiting to see what would happen next.

Some seconds passed. The cloud of ash started rolling in anew. But then the same thunderclap echoed over the city, and the same wave of energy spread across the sky, and the ash drew back again.

Going by the direction of the wave, Ria thought, it was coming from the upper part of the city. Up by Dragonsreach. She had to see this with her own eyes. It was important to help, yes, she knew, but she had to see this.

As always, it seemed Erik had the same idea as her. They both started back towards the keep at the same sprint as before. Doing this in heavy armor really wasn't easy. She was going to get winded before long. But whatever this was… she had to see it.

On the way, another thunderclap swept through the air, and then another. The streets were nearly empty now. No one seemed to know what exactly to do. Certainly, no one else was running. The whole effort to flee the city had just paused. And meanwhile, the two Companions raced up the stairs to the Gildergreen, past Jorrvaskr, and up the stairs after that to Dragonsreach.

They found their answer just as another thunderclap issued forth. There was a man standing just beyond the top of the stairs, in front of the bridge to Dragonsreach's doors. A completely gigantic man, covered head to toe in ebony armor. He must have been half again as tall as Ria was. And he was just standing there, chest rising and falling slowly, fists clenched at his sides. Watching the ash roll in.

Was this man supposed to be familiar?

"Hey!" Erik instantly brightened. "Uh… Ebony Warrior! It's you!"

The man looked down at the duo in front of him, and exhaled suddenly in surprise. He spoke in a surprisingly bright, mild-sounding voice. "Erik! Good to see you here. I see your adventuring's turned out all right. And please, call me Kamian." Then he paused, took a deep breath in, and shouted: _"Lok-vah-koor!"_

Again, the thunderclap. It was even louder up close. But it passed over them harmlessly, and carried out into the sky beyond.

Erik nodded. "Ria, this is, uh… this is the man who told me to join the Companions. He gave me an amulet of Talos, I told you about that. I still have it."

"Oh." Well, this was interesting. Ria asked, "Kamian, how did you… how did you get here?"

"Propylon column," Kamian said. "If you two want to help, go down there and start getting people back to their homes. This might herald some big attack or other, and if it comes, they should be within Whiterun's walls for it."

Then he stopped to do his shout again.

Erik asked, "How long are you going to keep doing this?"

But the ebony-clad giant just shrugged. "As long as it takes. Go on, look after your city. I'll be here."

"Wait." Ria held up a hand. "You're sure you can keep this going?"

And unsurprisingly, he was totally unfazed. "Yeah, of course. I'm the Dragonborn's big brother."

Well, that explained a lot.

As Ria turned and headed down the stairs, the shout went off again behind her. She had a feeling she'd be listening to a lot of this thunder stuff today. But still, there wasn't anything to do but what Kamian had said. Chances were, the land outside the city wasn't even all going to be safe from the ash, in any direction. There probably was nowhere good for people to be even fleeing to.

This time around, the streets were completely empty. As she came down past the Gildergreen, the only person in sight besides Erik was actually Athis. The poor elf still hadn't moved from the top of the stairs.

Ria moved on without a word. But she did wonder what Athis was thinking right then. She almost didn't want to guess.

Eventually, the two of them got all the way down to the Plains District, which was closer to the gates than they'd ever been before. At this point, there still was sort of a crowd, but only because everyone was still standing around and not knowing what to do. That thundering shout had been clearing the sky of ash, again and again, this entire time.

Erik cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, "Everyone! Back to your homes! It's safe in Whiterun, it's not safe outside!"

That certainly got everyone to look at him, at least. No one seemed eager to just go back like nothing had happened. And that was fair. There was still a cloud of deadly burning ash descending on Whiterun.

After a couple seconds, Ria followed her Shield-Brother up with, "Come on, move it! Clear the streets, let people back in! … Guards, help out! … Where are the guards today?"

"Putting out a fire, I think," Erik answered her at a more regular volume.

Ria flashed him an annoyed look, then went on towards the gates.

For the next hour or so, they had nothing to do but try to get people home again. The first ten minutes or so consisted just of Ria and Erik trying to convince every guard they could find to bring people _back_ into the city. Eventually, they stumbled upon Commander Caius, who was able to actually give some real orders, but it didn't change that the crowd all through the streets clearly had no idea what to do. Ria was spending a lot of time saying the same few things. "We're safe here now." "Get to your house." "Stay off the streets." "It's going to be fine." After a while, she wasn't even sure what she was saying. It was all just noise for her.

Meanwhile, outside the city, the volcano was still spreading ash into the air, its slopes streaking visibly with bright orange again, and its peak still roaring with that gigantic flame. And every fifteen seconds or so, another thunderclap reverberated through the city, and the ash was staved off for that much longer. At this rate, the clear parts of the sky would start showing all the rest of their stars before this was over.

But then, after that hour's time, the distant rumble suddenly stopped. The ash cloud was still overhead, but the volcano's noise was gone. Ria stepped away from the crowds and ran up to the ramparts by the gates. Once again, she just had to see this.

There was no burning flame on the horizon. In the dim evening sky, darkened by the ash, it should have stood out like the sun, but it was gone. So was all of the lava pouring down the mountainside. The whole area was just the same uniform darkness, wreathed in the ash cloud's shadow.

Then she realized it. The horizon was flat again. The entire volcano had just disappeared.

Naturally, Erik caught up with her after just a few seconds. He took one look out over the walls, and said, "Eh. It was overstaying its welcome anyway."

Another thunderclap issued forth, and the ash drew back once again. There was still a huge amount up there, even with its source gone. Kamian was probably going to be busy for a while yet.

"Well, we just had a temporary volcano." Ria sighed and put her hands on her hips. "I suppose we'd better get back to Jorrvaskr. I haven't caught a glimpse of any of the others, this whole time."

Erik nodded and started back down the stairs. "I can't imagine they wandered far," he said over his shoulder. "Unless what happened just now is that they attacked the volcano and won."

This time, for once, Ria got to walk along with the flow of the crowd. Their mood at this point was one of numb silence. But that was fine, because it meant she didn't have to keep paying attention to them. At this point, her eyes were on the sky. The ash above was still ebbing and flowing, back and forth, again and again, but she couldn't tell if it was actually lessening. If Kamian stopped now, the city would probably still get buried.

He'd been at it for over an hour. Apparently, shouting didn't require much in the way of rest.

Eventually, Ria and Erik did make it back to the Gildergreen, past all the people returning to their houses. It was at this point that Jorrvaskr came back into view. And sure enough, the other Companions were waiting. Or at least, some of them were. Five of them were sitting on the top step of the staircase, right beneath their big wooden arch, just looking out over the Wind District. Athis was sitting on the stone base of one of the arch pillars, his head in his hands. Njada was there next to him, one arm around his shoulders.

Stone-Arm indeed. Today just wasn't running out of extraordinary sights.

Still, here Ria was. She waved in greeting as she approached the stairs. "Hey! Everyone all right?"

The one to reply first, as it happened, was Tam. She was right there in the middle of the row. "Aye, we think so," she called back. "Still… still waiting for the others."

Ria and Erik exchanged a glance. As they did, another crack of thunder went through the air. It was much louder and sharper up here.

Erik gestured up the stairs to Jorrvaskr. "You go on. I'm going to go check on Kamian."

"Then I'm coming with you," Ria replied instantly.

Her Shield-Brother didn't protest the decision. They headed back up to Dragonsreach together. It was a short enough walk from here. And that thunder really was getting loud.

Kamian was just about where he'd been before, at the beginning of the bridge to the keep. But it was plain that all the shouting had taken a toll on him. He was off to the bridge's left side, down on one knee, with his hand braced on a wooden pillar of the first overhead arch. He was panting hard through his visor, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath. A couple guards were standing nearby, but none of them seemed able to do anything but watch.

The man had been at this for more than an hour, without pause. Ria couldn't imagine what that felt like for him right now.

In the meantime, she looked up at the sky once more. She was finally starting to be able to see stars in the sky to the west again. The ash must have been finally clearing away.

Erik asked, "Are you all right?"

Bit of an odd question, Ria thought. The answer was sort of obvious.

Just as she was thinking that, Kamian raised his face to the sky, and let out the same three words as before, in the same commanding voice: _"Lok-vah-koor!"_

And as the thunderclap issued forth, he finally stopped and looked at the two Companions standing there. "Welcome back," he whispered weakly, before letting his head drop again.

"We can find a healer for you," Ria said. "The priestess of Kynareth, I know she, uh… Danica, that's her name. She can do healing spells. If you need those."

In response, without even looking up, Kamian raised his free left hand and threw a massive swirling aura of restoration magic over himself. Then he let the hand drop, and shook his head slowly. His voice came at the same pained whisper as before. "Doesn't matter."

"The power of the Voice demands more than mere stamina," one of the nearby guards said. "Kamian has been taxing himself in ways that are beyond the power of simple spells to recover."

Erik scowled. "How do you even know that?"

"Well, he said so earlier. It's been a while."

As if on cue, Kamian looked up and repeated his shout to the sky. The cloud of ash was growing visibly smaller up there.

"Just a few more," Ria said. "Hang in there, Kamian. You've almost got it. The city's almost safe."

Then the guard spoke up again. "Hey. I remember you two. You were out on the Great Porch, weren't you? When Nosqoriik was here. Ria, right? And… Erik?"

"Uh, yes, that was indeed us," Erik answered, after a moment's hesitant silence. That question _had_ come pretty much out of nowhere. "I guess you were, too?"

"Aye. Name's Hroki. I thought the world couldn't throw anything at us that was crazier than dragons. I, uh… I hadn't imagined we'd get a damn _volcano_."

Ria nodded slowly. "Hroki. Well met, then."

At this point, there wasn't much to do but wait. Besides Kamian himself, there were four of them here—two Companions and two Whiterun guards—and they could only stand beside him and watch him prepare for his next shout. It was a painful sight. And the ash was still spreading through the sky. It was thinning out, lessening steadily without the volcano there to add more, but the city still wasn't safe.

It took four more shouts for the last of the ash to clear away. Ria spent the whole time watching the sky. More and more stars were emerging into sight every time. Surely, the ash had spread in other directions too, and that would obscure the sky closer to the horizon, but the billowing dark clouds directly above were being reduced to no more than wisps. And so after the fourth shout, the wave of energy passed through the sky… and left nothing above but the stars and moons.

"I think it's done," Ria said. "That's it."

Everyone else looked up when she said that. Even Kamian himself.

The second guard pulled off his helmet for a better lock. Underneath was a middle-aged man, darker-skinned, with short brown hair. No one Ria recognized. Obviously an Imperial, though. He let out a long sigh of relief. "I believe you are right, Ria. Whiterun is safe."

All of a sudden, there was a huge, crashing thud. Ria jumped a little. Not good. She wasn't ready for another crisis. Not tonight.

Then she realized what the sound had come from. Maybe this was still a crisis. But it had just become far, far more specific.

Kamian had fallen flat on his side, right across the bridge. He wasn't moving.


	47. Gelebor 10

Turdas, 2:58 PM, 70th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Dragonsreach

"My fellow jarls, I bid you welcome to my hall. On this day, we decide the new ruler of Skyrim. There is no ceremony, no ritual upon which we must stand today. It is up to us to decide the future of our land and her people."

To Gelebor's surprise, this conversation wasn't taking place in the main hall itself. It was a relatively small, stone-floored room at the top of the hall's rear staircase, with corridors branching off to other parts of the keep. There was a single, modest rectangular table set up in here, with three seats along the longer sides, and two seats along the shorter ones.

Ten seats, nine of which were occupied by jarls. The tenth was for Gelebor himself.

It had been a long ride returning here. Gelebor had ultimately decided to travel alongside Jarl Skald, if only to help present himself as a neutral party later on. The journey would have likely been unbearable, were it not for Teldryn's company.

Still, it turned out that in their absence, an entire erupting volcano had briefly appeared and disappeared outside Whiterun's walls. No doubt, it had been another of the magical anomalies taking place throughout Skyrim, but Gelebor was nothing short of shocked by how massive it had become. Massive, and unprecedented.

Apparently, the reason the city had not been buried in ash was because Kamian, that ebony-armored giant of a man who'd casually thrown a thousand septims at Teldryn some time ago, had intervened and used his Voice to clear the sky. There was talk of pronouncing him Thane of Whiterun for that. It would be the first time in recent memory that two siblings had become Thane of the same hold.

None of this, of course, was going to impede the progress of the Moot. It simply meant that there happened to be a great swathe of ash and basalt sitting on the western plains. The beauty of a truly successful rescue, it seemed, was that no one felt the need to care.

Jarl Balgruuf was sitting at his immediate left side, on one of the shorter sides of the table. He was the one delivering the opening statement, as befitted the one hosting the Moot. He continued, "The elf at my side, if you have not met him already, is Knight-Paladin Gelebor. He is attending this Moot as an unaligned arbiter. If any of you have any objections to this, voice them now."

Nobody spoke. Perhaps they thought it made their Moot more interesting to have the last living snow elf in their company for it.

"So be it." Balgruuf nodded, then glanced sideways at Gelebor. "Do you have anything else to add as we begin?"

Gelebor took a deep breath in, and glanced around the perimeter of the table. All eight of the other jarls were looking at him expectantly. But Jarl Skald in particular, at the table's very opposite end, was giving him a very pointed glare. The two of them had not exchanged even a word about the Aetherium since leaving Dawnstar. Perhaps now was not the safest time to reignite that matter.

Then something else came to mind. "… This is perhaps odd to ask at such an eminent meeting, but… would you mind telling me all your names? I know them all already, but I haven't yet matched them to faces."

Jarl Balgruuf shrugged. "Well, you know mine. Let's go around, shall we? Introduce ourselves to the honored outsider?"

And so the remaining eight jarls gave him their names. From left to right, they were Elisif of Solitude, Idgrod of Morthal, Siddgeir of Falkreath, Skald of Dawnstar, Korir of Winterhold, Brunwulf of Windhelm, Ogmund of Markarth, and Laila of Riften. As he listened, Gelebor was reminded of his first taste of Nord life in Dragon Bridge, when Teldryn had drawn him that crude map of Skyrim. The explanation of its contents had been bewildering at the time. It all seemed so simple in hindsight.

"It is a pleasure to meet all of you," the snow elf smiled. "Now, as we move forward, I may not be aware of every rule to which you must adhere. Nevertheless, I hope that this Moot will give Skyrim a worthy leader. I've been to five of its nine holds so far. It is a wondrous place."

Siddgeir asked, "Which ones, by chance?"

"Uh… I began in the Reach, and then Haafingar, Falkreath Hold, Whiterun Hold and the Pale." He counted them on his fingers as he spoke, to make sure he matched the number he had said. "Hopefully, I will have the chance to visit the others soon."

"You would be most welcome in Riften," Laila smiled. "Or any other hold capital, I'm sure."

"Ahh, that's enough of that, now." Korir, the red-haired man at Skald's side, waved his hands dismissively. "We have a High King to decide on."

"Or High Queen," Idgrod commented primly.

Korir sighed. "… Right you are. Now, we are all meeting today, but it's approaching an entire year ago that High King Torygg was … taken from us." His eyes went briefly to Jarl Elisif as he spoke. Ostensibly, it wouldn't do for him to speak poorly of Torygg in front of the man's widow. "And I believe that in a quiet, informal way, the Moot has been running this entire time. Already, we have narrowed the number of candidates down to two. Am I wrong?"

There was no reply. Gelebor waited patiently for the rest of Korir's statement.

"These two candidates, of course, are Jarls Brunwulf and Elisif. If it's all the same to the rest of you, I would be satisfied to hold our vote now, and be done with the matter."

"Not so fast, Korir," Balgruuf said sharply. "We have scarcely begun. I'm sure you believe at this time that you have enough of us secured to support the ruler of your choice. But hastening to the vote can only betray that you fear for your candidate's support. Is that what you wish to tell us?"

"No, no, not in the slightest." But Korir already looked visibly perturbed. Whatever fear he carried inside him, it stirred even at this passing mention.

It was time for Gelebor to speak. He held up a hand and said, "I would prefer… if we are able, I would prefer to hear from these candidates themselves. Jarl Brunwulf, do you indeed desire to become High King?"

Brunwulf was an old, weathered but strong-looking Nord man, bald-headed and thickly bearded, wearing rugged yet well-crafted armor of leather and fur and steel. One of the shoulders had a very distracting structure of horn and bone on it. As always, of course, the armor had essentially no coverage for the arms. Nords seemed to enjoy displaying their biceps.

"Yes." Brunwulf turned to look directly at Gelebor, and as he did, Gelebor realized the man's right eye was blind. It hadn't been obvious at a glance, but the iris and pupil were far too milky and gray to see with. It went without saying that this had been the product of some sort of injury. "The late Jarl Ulfric left a bitter legacy in Windhelm, and all of Skyrim at that. It is left to our generation to rebuild the damage caused by his rebellion and all the conflicts that followed. Someone needs to lead this effort. It seems my peers have chosen me."

The snow elf nodded in acknowledgment. "Thank you. And Jarl Elisif? Do you desire to become High Queen?"

Elisif couldn't have looked much different from her rival candidate. She was a slender, graceful woman, youthful but not delicate, stern-faced but not angry. Her red hair was brushed straight back and held in place by a jeweled copper circlet. Unlike Brunwulf, her outfit was formal as the occasion called for, though beneath the gilded red and brown fabric she clearly wore a shirt of chainmail. Also unlike Brunwulf (and half the other jarls at the table), her outfit had actual sleeves.

"I will do whatever Skyrim needs of me," she replied evenly. Her voice was curiously pleasant to listen to. It was so smooth and gentle, yet somehow powerful at the same time. For a leader of her stature, that was quite the advantage. "I have never been eager to take the crown for myself. But my husband is dead, and someone must lead Skyrim through these dark times. Jarl Brunwulf was certainly right on that count."

"Appreciated," Brunwulf said flatly.

"Indeed." Elisif gave him a single, impassive nod. "And so a question comes to mind—why are there two candidates? Why have we drawn up these lines between us? Our distribution is nearly identical to that of the Stormcloak Rebellion, but the White-Gold Concordat, the document that provoked that uprising, was abandoned months ago. Does the war linger on in our hearts even now?"

Skald sniffed dismissively. " _Something_ is lingering, all right."

There was a brief pause. Eventually, Jarl Balgruuf replied, rather testily. "Would you care to explain yourself, Skald?"

"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. It's just that the Empire never stopped controlling us." Skald pointed an accusing finger right at Elisif. "You know what _she'll_ do? Whatever the Emperor tells her to do, that's what. She's never going to stand up for what Nords truly need."

Brunwulf held up a hand towards Skald. "That's… enough, I think, thank you," he said, before turning his focus to Gelebor and Balgruuf. "But you do have to admit that he has a point. The Empire has been dragging us into one war after another. There is only so much that the people of Skyrim can take."

"Well, as an outsider, I'm still waiting for examples," Gelebor shrugged. "What exactly do you expect Elisif will do that's so wrong?"

Korir cut in. "Make that upstart Noster into a jarl, for one. Here's the problem with that. Noster is doing what the Dragonborn says. But the Dragonborn is doing what the Empire says. And Noster's sitting on some of the most powerful territory Skyrim has ever seen. You really trust him with that?"

"You _are_ aware that the Dragonborn and his followers have saved Skyrim from total devastation," Balgruuf said. "Repeatedly. Most recently, his followers saved this very city, and everyone in it, including myself."

Brunwulf shook his head. "You cannot lose your perspective, Balgruuf. He saved you, or his followers did, from a crisis _he_ caused by mucking about in Oblivion."

"More than that," Korir added, "you mustn't confuse the ability to fight with the ability to lead. If you give Noster a jarl's authority, you'll be handing him all the power the dwarves ever left, with only—who? Elisif, to oversee him? In an indirect fashion, you'll be giving Skyrim's latest and greatest treasure to the Empire."

Siddgeir said, "Must be quite the high stakes for you, Korir. I've seen where Alftand is on the map. If Noster's not controlling it, you are. All those dwarven riches, just waiting to be tapped into. I've heard the people in Alftand have all the water they like, hot or cold, anytime they want it, at the turn of a knob. High stakes indeed, wouldn't you say?"

Korir's face twisted in disgust. "Just because you think of everything in terms of luxury—"

"Listen." Brunwulf held up his hand again. His own composure was entirely unshaken. "There are many more issues facing Skyrim than the authority of this… Noster, you're calling him. One of our holds has been reduced to a smoldering ruin. The people of Skyrim are at a breaking point. And now we have news that the Shadow Unending was caused by Alduin, the World-Eater."

"Who's only back because of the Dragonborn's incessant meddling," Skald chimed in.

"Hold on a moment," Balgruuf said, more curtly than politely. "Before we move on from it, I would like to observe that it doesn't matter whether Noster becomes jarl of his own underground lair. Not in terms of that lair's standing with the Empire. Either way, the person in charge of it will answer to Skyrim's High King or Queen. Bear that in mind as we continue."

Siddgeir mouthed the words 'high stakes' to Korir, grinning impishly as he did. Korir tightened his lips, pointedly refusing to answer, and looked straight ahead at nothing in particular.

A couple seconds went by in silence. Then a pair of doors opened at the side of the room, and a servant came through carrying a bucket and a broom. No real surprise there, of course—this meeting _was_ still in the middle of a keep. But still, no one spoke until the servant had left again.

Then Brunwulf and Laila both began to speak at the same time. Brunwulf stopped and gestured for Laila to continue. She said, "Now that we've… gotten that all out of the way, can we _please_ talk about the fact that the world is ending out there?"

"Yes," Gelebor replied. "I do believe we can."

All eyes went to him. And immediately, he realized that he had just set himself on a path to breaking his neutrality in this Moot. But if Skald hadn't wanted this to come up, he shouldn't have let Gelebor stay—and much more importantly by now, this impending statement direly needed to be said. The fact that Gelebor himself was the one saying it was effectively no more than happenstance.

And so he continued: "I know what's happening out there. Alduin _is_ responsible for the Shadow Unending. He's set the world on a course that will result in it destroying itself. The volcano that nearly consumed Whiterun is only a herald of what calamity will come. And the reason that I am here today, and not in isolation as I have been these past millennia, is to try to stop it."

"But you're here at a Moot," Siddgeir said. "Rather boring venue to save a world from, isn't it?"

Skald's glaring look had returned. Gelebor wasn't sure what he was meant to take from that, but he most definitely would not deign to respond to it. There was no way he would invite that man to open his mouth.

"Well, in fairness, you are quite distinguished company," the snow elf replied, with his usual courteous smile. "But I was sent forth on a very specific mission. The short of it is that I need four Aetherium shards from Dwemer ruins to fashion a locking device that will return Mundus to stability. Three, I have already recovered. But the fourth has ended up in the possession of Jarl Skald. He has refused to release it."

Now, all eyes went to Skald. He shrugged indignantly. "I don't know about all of you, but I'm not about to take some stranger's word for it. Elf or no. And he's leaving out an important detail: The Dragonborn asked for it before he did."

"All the more reason to share it, then," Balgruuf said.

Laila asked, "How did it end up in your possession, Skald? You weren't hunting in Dwemer ruins, I hope."

Skald waved the idea away. "Oh, no, nothing of the sort. Some of the red draugr were foolish enough to wander into my hold. One of them had it. Foolish indeed."

"More likely, trying to get it away from the Dragonborn and his allies," Balgruuf countered.

Elisif put her hand on her chin thoughtfully. "Now, why would it do that?"

"Oh, shut your mouths," Skald snapped, rather loudly. That was a bit of a startle. "I don't care what some dead dragon thinks. This whole Aetherium business, it's all the Dragonborn's idea. There's no way I'm getting roped into his schemes."

" _Well,_ " Elisif said. Somehow, in that one word, she managed to convey acknowledgment, disagreement and accusation all at once. "What do you make of that, Brunwulf?"

The older jarl let out a long, emphatic sigh. "… To be blunt, I'm tired of making all my decisions in the Dragonborn's shadow. He killed my predecessor, and left me to pick up the city of Windhelm in the man's wake. He put a teleportation device in my keep, one that only his soldiers can pass through. For all intents and purposes, I'm his hostage."

He paused. No one replied. Gelebor wondered if the other jarls thought the same of those teleportation columns.

"So I don't know whether to trust him on this. The fate of the world may indeed be in the balance, but how can I put my faith in someone who's caused so many of the problems we face now? I have to respect Jarl Skald's decision to withhold the shard. Not out of deference, but because I have no reason to think it will make things better."

Now Balgruuf spoke up. He sounded at least as annoyed as Elisif, and that was saying something. But where Elisif limited herself to one sentence, Balgruuf used many, many more.

"I see you haven't spent long around the Dragonborn, Jarl Brunwulf. But I have. I've spent long enough around him to know that when he makes a request, he gets the results he wants from it. He asked to call a dragon to my Great Porch, and used it to ride off and defeat Alduin. He asked to have some supplies sent to Alftand, and used them to make a sanctuary for his Thalmor-slaying army—the one that brought down the 14th Unit in one night. He even asked to put a teleportation column in my keep, and it let Blackreach send us his brother, the Ebony Warrior, quickly enough to save our whole city from that volcano. Every time he asks for something, it pays off. For us, not for him. So when you say you don't trust the Dragonborn, I don't know what in Oblivion you're thinking."

Korir said, "I don't know about you, but I think he's positioning us to become the Empire's pawns."

Everyone stared at him. After a moment, Laila said, "Go on."

He took a deep breath in.

"All right. Look. He took the Stormcloak Rebellion, killed its leader, and turned its best soldiers into an army to serve the Empire's interests. If you don't believe me, look no further than Markarth—his soldiers took the city from the Thalmor, and turned it right over to the Legion. And this was after the Reach was all but completely _annihilated_ by his premature war with the Thalmor. All that's left is the Empire's now, thanks to him. No Forsworn, no resistance, just a whole lot of dead, and a nice blank canvas for the Empire to fill as they please.

"And what about more recently? Let's say Alduin's return is an accident. Let's ignore that for now. He's still trying to put teleportation devices in all our city keeps, so he can send his own personal army into our strongholds at a whim. And despite this, we can't use the teleportation devices to get into Blackreach ourselves—in fact, no one can. He's building a war machine down there, and no one can stop him. In good part, because no one has the authority to. Naturally, he's now in support of Jarl Elisif for High Queen, who's going to defer to the Empire on everything they care about. Naturally, the Empire's going to let him continue his work down there—why wouldn't they? They love him more than we ever could.

"So yes, he's saved us countless times. But do we intend to thank him by handing him our freedom? He's asking us to put our faith in him, but for all his heroic appearances, there's no sign he plans to use it for our good above all. He's never done a single thing for us that the Empire didn't benefit from too. I don't know about all of you, but I see him doing these things, and I think he needs to answer to someone here in Skyrim. Someone who's not Elisif."

There was a long, long stretch of silence. Everyone was looking at those around them, waiting for somebody else to come up with some sort of response. Even Gelebor himself didn't know what to say to this. All he could think was that he'd never expected his mission to fall apart this way. Here he was, trying to save the world, and… this was his obstacle.

He should have left Teldryn in Dawnstar. While Jarl Skald had been on his way to Whiterun, Teldryn could have rooted out the Aetherium shard, and ridden right past him to Riverwood, where Vidrald could meet him. By the time Skald received the news of the shard's disappearance, the Aetherial Lock would have been already constructed. At that point, the consequences mattered none. The world would continue to exist, and that was enough.

If only he'd done that. He couldn't bear to imagine what Auri-El thought of his work at this point.

Korir said, "I do believe we're ready for that vote now."

Gelebor opened his mouth silently. He fought for words. When they did come, they were slow and hesitant, and he couldn't even judge whether they were right to be saying at all. He'd shared his knowledge and his thoughts, and they hadn't been enough. "Ah… Is anyone undecided on whom they intend to vote for?"

There was no reply. That was hardly a surprise. More likely than not, they'd made up their minds before this discussion had even begun.

"I think we may wish to proceed now," Balgruuf said.

"So be it," Gelebor said, before swallowing and continuing as before. "Those in support of Jarl Brunwulf becoming High King, raise your hands now."

One by one, Skald, Korir, Brunwulf himself, and Laila all raised their hands.

But Ogmund remained still.

With his hand still raised, Brunwulf turned to him and said, "What is the matter?"

No answer.

"You can't mean to vote for Elisif," Korir said. "It's your hold that's falling into the Empire's grasp. Is that truly what you want now?"

Then Ogmund looked over at him and replied with two words: "You're wrong."

Well, that was new.

Korir blinked in surprise. "Ah… about what, now?"

Gelebor very much shared the sentiment. But Ogmund had hardly spoken this entire time. He'd assumed it was out of agreement with everything that Brunwulf and his supporters were saying.

But it wasn't Ogmund who issued a reply. It was Elisif. She said, "You're wrong about a great many things, Korir. You always have taken matters woefully foolishly." Somehow, she still sounded immaculately civil, despite her own words. "But you were right about one thing. The Moot has been in progress for a long time before this meeting. Did you believe you were the only one having talks behind closed doors? We all have. And we've made a decision."

Balgruuf added, "It was still important to have this meeting, of course. But the nature of a closed-door discussion is that it cannot be divulged before its time." He glanced to Gelebor. "And now you understand a little more of the reasoning of Skyrim's leadership. I hope it was to your satisfaction."

"So you're… putting your _Elisif_ in power after all," Skald said, fighting to keep his voice level. His face shone as clearly as could be with impotent rage.

Meanwhile, Brunwulf was looking on in silent shock. Clearly, he had expected a very different outcome to this vote.

Ogmund simply said, "Well… Elisif?"

At first, Gelebor wasn't sure what Ogmund meant. But then Elisif took it as a cue to speak. She answered, "As it happens, no. That wasn't the plan. Perhaps it was, once, but I've had time to have a change of heart."

The snow elf asked, "So, the five of you. Elisif, Balgruuf, Siddgeir, Idgrod… and Ogmund. Which one of you are you deciding to make High King?"

In response, Elisif smiled. "Actually, we're voting for Noster."


	48. Unnamed 1

Sundas, 7:22 PM, 66th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Understone Keep

The room appeared around him in a swirling flash of light.

They'd put the propylon column right in the middle of the Legion's headquarters for the city. Apparently, this part of the keep had once been a dedicated museum for Dwemer artifacts, but many of those were gone now. Besides a few horribly oversized automatons made into statues, it was a lot like any other Dwemer-made underground interior, except with legionnaires everywhere. And a couple Black Gears, because those were important.

Noster stepped forward, took a brief look around, then pocketed his index. This wasn't his first time here. It was actually his third. He'd come here once to explore the area, again to start an important conversation, and now because he'd been asked to come. He was used to it by now. But this didn't bode well.

At least he didn't have to wait for long. His intended contact was already walking toward him. And scowling magnificently at him on the way.

"Jarl Ogmund," he said. "What am I here for today?"

Ogmund walked right past him with a curt, "With me," and carried on to some back door of the room. There wasn't much to do but follow along.

Over the past few months, Noster had become very used to the inside of Dwemer structures. But Understone Keep felt very different from Alftand or Blackreach. On some basic level, it felt like it'd never really stopped being a Dwemer ruin. There was no new architecture, and practically no new furniture anywhere. Here in the Dwemer museum, the remaining artifacts were just sort of scattered haphazardly everywhere. They should've called it the Dwemer scrapyard.

And although Noster hadn't been here for this, he'd heard it'd taken a hostile occupation by the Thalmor for someone to clear up all the dirt and debris everywhere. Just because the Thalmor general had been so irked by what the locals had left him. That was kind of embarrassing.

Maybe he'd come to take Blackreach Hold's way of life for granted, but he really couldn't believe this place. Everyone here was living in a Dwemer-made city, and they'd completely failed to build on what the Dwemer had left them. It was like how bandits sometimes set up shop in a ruin without actually making it into their own home. He really hoped he could help them with that, at some point.

But for now, he'd have to deal with whatever this was about. After his last time here, he'd thought there wouldn't be any need to come back for more. There wasn't much to do but keep an open mind.

Ogmund led him through a few twists and turns in the stone corridors, past tables and chairs and little side chambers filled with more random Dwemer scraps. It wasn't a familiar route. Last time, he'd visited Ogmund in his throne room, and they'd gone to some other part of the keep to talk. Somewhere far from here. Right now it felt more like he was being led off to get executed.

But in the end, they just stopped in another basically empty room, well out of pretty much everyone's way. It was spacious, at least. But the only things in it were a stone table in the middle and some shelving around the walls, all empty, except for a single low metal box on the table. Ogmund waited for Noster to step inside, then closed the doors after him.

A couple seconds went by where they were just looking at each other. Then Noster repeated his question from earlier. "What am I here for today?"

He wondered how many more times he'd get to ask that. Probably at least once. He had a feeling he wasn't going to get a straight answer, which would pretty much guarantee him another try.

Ogmund let out a long sigh, one hand resting against the doors. He looked awfully tired right then. But then, appearances could be deceiving. The man was scruffy, big-bearded, and wearing a suit of worn-down leather armor—and the people of Markarth had demanded he be made Jarl. That didn't happen by accident.

"You know, Noster," he replied carefully, "I think that in a sense, we are kindred spirits. We both share a desire to serve, first and foremost. That's not true of nearly enough people in power." He stepped away from the doors and sighed again. "I wish that was all it took for leaders to get along. A desire to serve. To honor their ancestors, to honor their followers. But it's not."

Noster held his arms wide out, expectantly. "So what am I here for today?"

He'd known he'd get to say that again.

"I really had high hopes for us." Ogmund's voice turned low and bitter. He had the most amazingly earnest scowl on his face right then. As he spoke, he moved to circle slowly around the table, keeping his eyes on Noster the whole time. "I came out of our last discussion thinking the world of you. And of your hold. An impenetrable fortress beneath the ice of Skyrim, where we could cultivate our own power, free of all interference. I thought it was a splendid idea. Where better to put our High King?"

A pause. Noster didn't say anything. But he did wonder how much of this little speech Ogmund had thought up ahead of time.

The man continued. "That was what I'd thought. But we made a deal, and I trusted you. But I suppose that doesn't matter to you, compared to your own business."

Well, this was great. Noster already knew where it was going. He didn't know how this was possible, exactly, but he did know where it was going. So he just swallowed his nervousness and acted like the entire future of Skyrim wasn't being toyed with right now. "What's the issue, then?"

Ogmund's scowl focused into a menacing glare. He pointed a single, accusing finger at Noster and said, "You told me you wouldn't be dealing with the Empire in your plans for this."

"I know. I didn't call for them, they came to me." And that actually was the truth, not that he expected Ogmund to care. The secret was out now. "They learned about my possible candidacy from Elisif, and they wanted to see what Skyrim's potential High King is like. I wasn't making any deals."

"So you're not denying it, then?" Ogmund sniffed in something maybe resembling mirth. Not really. He was still glaring. "I thought you might. But you also didn't come to me and keep me informed about the Empire's actions towards you."

"Well, they… weren't really doing anything, so—"

"Stop. Stop right there." He turned around and laid both his hands on the table, right over the metal box, staring full force into Noster's eyes. It actually was kind of intimidating, if only for the fact that he looked like a crazy war veteran right now. "I'm going to make this very simple for you. I trusted you to use your discretion to stay free of the Empire's influence. That trust is gone. So now you're going to agree to some new terms to keep my vote."

Noster swallowed. He'd been waiting for this part. As soon as he figured out where it was going, he'd known this was where it would end up. A pity, too. He'd just been starting to build up some real wherewithal in Blackreach.

In any case, he walked on over to the far side of the table from Ogmund, and laid his hands down on it in kind. Then he replied, "I presume the box has some important paper or other for me to sign?"

"You guess correctly." Ogmund let up from his glaring for a second, and opened the lid, pulled out a piece of paper and slid it across the table. It stopped a couple feet short of Noster's end.

"Not exactly much for compromise, are you?" he murmured, before picking it up and giving it a brief skim over. Then he realized what he was looking at, and gave it a much more detailed look over.

The text was:

 _The war with the Aldmeri Dominion has left the Reach devastated beyond recognition. What little of the hold remains, including its capital city of Markarth, lacks the power to make an effort at recovery without the risk of undesired interference from outside entities. With this in mind, I, Noster, Jarl of Blackreach and High King of Skyrim, swear to uphold all of the following edicts._

 _In reparation for the damages inflicted by war, and to aid the Reach's recovery, the Crown will supply Markarth with monthly payments of 10,000 septims, for the three years following my coronation. The Crown may audit the usage of these payments, but may not share any gathered information with the Empire, nor may the Empire employ its own auditors._

 _All efforts to repopulate and make use of the land of the Reach, whether by the Reach's natives, the Dunmer noble houses, or any other interested parties, will be overseen by the Jarl of Markarth, not the Emperor. Taxes from this revenue will accordingly be collected by the Jarl, and the Empire will receive its tax revenue from the Jarl normally._

 _The Imperial Legion will no longer be permitted to hold a permanent garrison in Markarth. The enforcement of the law will be left to the Jarl's own force of guards, both within Markarth and across the rest of the Reach._

 _These edicts are non-negotiable. Should the Emperor or his representatives find any or all of these edicts objectionable, the Crown may negotiate for alternative compensation, but this compensation must not subvert the protections being afforded to the Reach and its people, nor be made at the Reach's expense in any other manner._

 _Should I fail to uphold my duties, may my claim to the Crown be duly challenged._

There was a fair bit of blank space at the bottom of the paper. That would be where Noster was supposed to sign.

"I have another copy in this box," Ogmund said. "One for me, and one for you. You'll sign both, and I'll keep mine here. Do with yours as you like."

Noster looked up at him, eyebrows raised. "Well… I can't say I'm surprised by the bit about the gold."

Ten thousand septims was no small amount of money. But honestly, at the same time, it wasn't huge. Over a month's time, that was enough to pay the wages of maybe a few dozen guards. It was less than what Noster was spending right now on Alftand's own guard complement. Probably, there was something that Jarl Ogmund wanted to do with his hold right now, but he just couldn't quite afford it while making ends meet, and this was a convenient way to fill the gap. This wasn't going to really hurt Blackreach's coffers at all.

Still, the remark didn't seem to bother Ogmund very much. "Aye, well… It's not perfect, but it's simpler than exempting Markarth from the Empire's taxes entirely. I don't expect you to have _that_ much control."

"Yeah, there's really no stopping their tax collectors, huh?" Despite it all, Noster had to smirk a little. But internally, he was breathing a massive sigh of relief. This could have been much worse than what he was seeing now.

"They have a bit of a way…" Ogmund chuckled for a moment. Then he sighed and gave Noster a vague sort of acknowledging wave. Or rather, the paper that Noster was holding. "So you'll sign it?"

"I'm not sure how much of this I can just _tell_ them to do. But honestly, none of this looks particularly unreasonable. You don't want the Empire to run your hold for you. Why did you feel the need to make a legal document out of it?"

Ogmund gave him a silent, calculating look. And that just about said it all. Somehow, this man had learned something about what had happened in Blackreach. And he'd learned it in a context that made it seem like incriminating evidence, even though the truth was plainly innocuous. It couldn't have been one of the Black Gears talking, or else this conversation wouldn't have started off with Ogmund glaring daggers into Noster's skull.

Noster waited for a few seconds, then added, "… Should I ask again once I'm High King? I can just order you to answer, then."

"That might be best." Ogmund nodded. Then he reached into his box, and pulled out another piece of paper—and a pen and inkwell. That was it, then. "Come around here, if you please?"

"Sure." He returned the nod and started circling around the table, his own copy of the paper in hand. "This is a very clearly written document. It's like an Imperial writ."

"Imperial writs don't usually detail all the ways the Empire's not allowed to exploit their people. … Or refer to Dunmer as Dunmer. They always call them 'dark elves'. You ever heard a Dunmer refer to their own race as 'dark elves'?" Ogmund stepped aside as Noster came up, and clasped his hands together behind his back, watching expectantly.

It took about ten seconds to sign both copies. Noster placed the quill down between them, then stepped back himself. "There. Done. Do you feel better?"

"I feel about three hundred and sixty thousand septims richer, if that's what you mean." The man gave him a cheeky grin. "Aye. I appreciate it, thank you. It was important to put this all in binding text now. I had a little help making sure it wouldn't be full of holes the Empire could worm their way through."

"Is that what that last paragraph about possible objections from the Empire is about?"

Ogmund nodded.

"They're going to be so annoyed at this," Noster grinned. Yes, this was making him grin. He wasn't about to hide it.

"I… well, ah…" The man laughed aloud, rubbing at his weathered forehead with one hand. "I didn't expect this reaction from you. Weren't you a legionnaire yourself, once?"

"Oh, sure, I was a scout in the Great War," he nodded appreciatively. "I was also left for dead by my own comrades, and then rejected by my higher-ups in Solitude because they suspected I'd deserted. Or did nobody tell you that part?"

There was a very, very long pause. Ogmund stared at him blankly. It was interesting that he had a blind eye. Noster sort of wondered how it'd gotten that way. Maybe the Psijics could give him a replacement in exchange for being an important unsung hero person.

Not that Noster himself was exactly unsung at this point. But still, nobody knew what kind of deal he'd helped make with Hermaeus Mora. Not even Hermaeus Mora knew, at this point. The big slimy many-eyed fellow was dead and gone. No one would ever have to listen to his voice ever again.

Oh, how things had changed.

"No," Ogmund said, eventually. "No one did tell me that. I'm sorry to hear the Empire did that to you."

Now it was Noster's turn to laugh. "Oh, don't worry about it. That's all old history. You've got no idea what's happened since then."

The man shrugged pleasantly. "Ahhh… perhaps not." Then he paused for a few seconds more, staring off into space. "You know… I have a lot of things going against me. I'm in charge of what used to be a hopelessly corrupt city, and now is a simply hopeless city. A quarter of its population, many of them able-bodied workers, have fled to other holds. I think a few are in Alftand now, aren't they?"

"Under a thousand, so far. No idea on the others."

"Right. Well, that's all going on, and the rest of the hold has been burnt to cinders. We have practically nothing going for us. The one thing—the _one_ thing I have on my side—is that I'm the deciding vote in your election as High King." He pointed to the papers where they were sitting on the table. Considering what he was talking about, he seemed really quite composed.

Noster looked down at the papers for a moment. Then he looked back at Ogmund. "That's not true."

Ogmund arched an eyebrow at him. "Eh?"

"Come on. You can't possibly mean to take this for granted, Ogmund." Noster paused and stared at him for a few seconds, waiting for a response. There wasn't one. "… Oh, for Talos' sake. You live in a Dwemer city! Do you realize what kind of advantage that gives you?"

The man's expression didn't change. "If you're thinking about all the fun artifacts they have, you can forget it. Most of Markarth's been scoured clean of that by now. And the Thalmor took everything of value from the Dwemer museum."

"You're still sitting on Nchuand-Zel. That's an entire city of its own. There's no way your museum could've held everything it had. It's just… All right, look. Let me give you some advice, one jarl to another. What's your court wizard's name?"

"Calcelmo," he said warily. "Why?"

"Dismiss him and take on someone more suitable. I don't care how good a scholar he is. If he's not improving Markarth, he's not doing his job. He had his chance with Nchuand-Zel, and he blew it on collecting parts in a little personal gallery inside your own keep. That's not just neglectful, that's _offensive_."

Ogmund frowned and put a knuckle to his lip. Eventually, he said, "I'll admit, I never gave that very much thought. But I'll have to look at that now. You just might have a point. Uh… I don't have anyone else coming to mind for the position. As long as you're talking about it, what do you think's good to look for?"

"Well, speaking personally, I can say your best bet would be to find someone like you and me—someone who's willing to serve. It's not the job of court wizards to do independent study. That's the College of Winterhold's business. So you find someone who's eager to learn about Dwemer things, and eager to serve your city. I'll supply some assistance for handling Nchuand-Zel and its artifacts, if it helps. We already put the propylon column in, may as well keep using it, right?"

"Aye, I'm going to be using it to get over to Whiterun in a couple days." Ogmund smiled good-naturedly. "Really cuts down on travel time, I'll give you that. I could get used to it. Hopping around between hold capitals like they're connected by a few doors."

"I'm glad you like it, really. Not everyone is so eager to have the Black Machine right there on their doorstep."

The man immediately snorted in derision. "Not everyone had their city _saved_ by the Black Machine. Your people, I welcome with open arms. It's the Legion I don't want in here. They answer to the Emperor. The Black Machine answers to you. And I want to trust you, I truly do." Then he pointed to the papers, again. "Those might help a little with that."

"Speaking of that, I should probably bring my copy back now. Like yourself, I have a hold to run." Noster promptly stepped over and picked up the paper he'd been first given. "I'll see you in a couple days, yes? In Dragonsreach?"

"Aye," Ogmund nodded. "I'll be there. Safe tidings to you, Jarl Noster."

"And you, Jarl Ogmund." Noster smiled and started on out of the room. This had gone much, much better than expected. Even if there were a lot of strange things to work out, well… there always were.

But on the way out, he heard Ogmund's voice behind him say, "Hey, wait!"

Obligingly, he stopped in place and looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Ogmund was grinning again. "I just had a thought. I know you're not invited to the Moot, but why don't you come in early for it, and then wait outside the room while we have our talk? Then when we make our votes, you can walk out right as we show our true colors, and it'll be the most dramatic moment of their lives."

Noster hesitated for a second, then shook his head and smiled. "You really are a bard at heart, aren't you?"

"It was worth saying," Ogmund shrugged mirthfully, before giving him a parting wave. "See you around, then."

Turdas, 3:34 PM, 70th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Dragonsreach

"… Actually, we're voting for Noster."

Elisif's voice was clearly audible over in the other room. That was his cue. He walked right out through the doors and into the impromptu meeting chamber.

And there were the nine jarls of Skyrim, plus some pale elf he'd never met before, all staring at him with hilariously differing expressions. He'd dressed up for the occasion. Fancy long layered sleeveless robes, all black with gold trim, with a dwarven metal circlet on his head, and black bracers on his forearms to round it out. He even had the jagged X-shaped red icon on his chest.

Naturally, the people who'd voted him appeared to be just marveling at the outfit. And as for the people who hadn't… well, their reactions were something to behold too.

All the same, he grinned at everyone present. "That's right, I'm your High King. We can skip the ceremony for now, we have business to attend to."

"Hello," the elf waved. "I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor. I'm the one doing the—"

"Ah, good. Pleasure to meet you." Noster nodded graciously.

Korir pointed at him furiously and started sputtering for words. The man was amazingly red in the face right then. "You—you little—this is completely against the, the, the laws, of the Moot, I will _not_ accept—"

Noster held up a hand. "Stop talking."

And thus was his first order as High King made. To his surprise, Korir obeyed. Maybe he just couldn't think of anything to say.

But now it was time to move on to his second order. He curled his hand into a fist, then pointed a finger at Jarl Skald, who was staring in silent shock.

"And you. Give me my gods-damn Aetherium."


	49. Aicantar 9

Fredas, 7:04 PM, 71st of Second Seed, 4E 202

Alftand

The Jarl of Blackreach was now the High King of Skyrim.

Given how things usually went around here, that didn't even feel like very big news.

It was common knowledge now that there'd been a gigantic near-disaster at Whiterun. A volcano had appeared out of nowhere, erupted for an hour, and then disappeared just as quickly. And the only reason it hadn't destroyed the city was because Kamian, the Ebony Warrior, had teleported over there and fended off the descending ash with nothing but his Voice. Everyone was talking about it, and what it might mean for the future of the Shadow Unending.

Lesser-known was that Kamian was still in Whiterun's keep of Dragonsreach. He was there because using his power for that long had ended up putting him in a coma. It was impossible to bring him back to Blackreach until he woke up, and no one knew when he would. Aicantar was keeping quiet about that one. Sensitive information, and all. But it was worrying. If anything like that volcano happened again, Kamian wouldn't be there to stop it.

People had enough to worry about anyway. There were still shooting stars pelting the ground outside every few days or so. The engineers guessed that if one directly struck Alftand, it would crush the upper ruins instantly, cut the rest off from the surface, and possibly cave in a lot more over time. There wasn't much to do about that one except pray.

"What's on your mind?" Sarelle asked from behind him.

"Oh, you know," he shrugged. "The usual."

The two of them were walking up from the lower dining hall, to the atrium. Along with the big fancy machinery, all of the shops in Alftand had been set up around that one room. And for once, Aicantar had gold to spend. It turned out that working in Blackreach paid very well. He already had a good few hundred septims to his name.

But he only had about fifty on his person right then. J'zargo had given him good advice—don't spend it all right away. He might find something he needed later.

Sarelle asked, "Well, do you know what you want to buy yet?"

"Not really. Uh… I hear we have some kind of ice wraith teeth now, don't we?" In fact, he'd heard that at dinner just now. Apparently, it was some new big thing. And it was strange for people to be excited about that, because how many of them actually did alchemy? That was all ice wraith teeth were good for.

But even Sarelle seemed interested. She actually chuckled as she replied. "Yes, we do! That was earlier today. Went through Administration and everything. The ghost guards spotted a… thing, across the canyon. We ended up sending a few Black Gears to investigate, if you didn't see."

"No, I didn't." Which was normal. Aicantar had been in the laboratory all day. What was he supposed to do, hear their footsteps when they passed outside? Or ever?

"Well, it was a giant ice wraith. So now we have giant ice wraith teeth. Since the Black Machine made the kill, they belonged to the Jarl, but he just sold them to the Alftand Alchemist for some stupid amount of money. I'm not sure if they're worth more as potion ingredients or as trophies."

The Alftand Alchemist was an actual shop in the atrium. Even though its name was about as bland as the food around here, it was supposedly pretty fully stocked, which was what counted. Aicantar had been in there before, briefly. The shopkeeper was some Argonian or other. The business there must've been good, if they'd been able to buy up a set of giant ice wraith teeth.

"Somehow, I'm not possessed by the urge to buy trophies today," Aicantar said. "Or alchemy reagents, for that matter. I have J'zargo for that."

"Might be nice to stop by anyway, though, wouldn't it? I never actually got to see the teeth, myself."

"Couldn't hurt. Still short on things to actually buy."

"What a problem to have, eh?" Sarelle laughed lightly. The atrium was coming up soon. So was the noise of the evening crowd in there. Since most people here—including Aicantar and Sarelle—were busy working during the day, all of the shops stayed open for a couple hours after dinner, just so people would have a chance to visit them.

When Aicantar reached the atrium, he was greeted with the familiar sight of the spiraling ramp starting on his left, and the far wall extending high above. There were a few dozen people already in here—a few guards on patrol, but mostly just regular people out shopping. They were all heading up and down the big spiraling ramp, going to and from different doorways along the walls. Aicantar started to head on up to join them, but then he was stopped by a gentle hand on his arm.

Sarelle was leaning up to him. Before he knew it, she was—she was kissing him, right on the lips. There was nothing to do but go with it. It was such a shock. Such a beautiful shock. Aicantar was practically shuddering with joy.

Then the Breton pulled away and smiled sweetly at him. "I just wanted to do that tonight," she said. "Thought I'd get it out of the way."

"Well, well, uh…" Aicantar grasped for words. He didn't know where they'd all gone. He was stuck on the part where Sarelle was perfect. "Uh… Thank you for your prudent planning, then."

And then, naturally, she responded with a big mirthful smile. Gods, could she have been any more of a blessing? As of now, it was official: this was among the best evenings he'd ever had.

The Alftand Alchemist was near the bottom of the ramp, so they didn't have a lot of walking to do. Probably, like a lot of the other shops, the Dwemer had used it as a storage room of some kind. But now it was a shop, with its name on a nice big metal sign above the doors. Aicantar passed by a few people on the way up, but nobody he knew. A lot of Bretons, that was for sure. They had a lot of those lately.

On the way up, Sarelle said, "It's good to see everyone out and about again. The bone break fever's about done, I think."

Aicantar wasn't really thinking about that right then. He'd already done his part to help with that, doing all those potions with J'zargo. But still, just to be nice and responsive, he asked, "How many people are still affected?"

"I think we're down to about twenty. But we had nearly a hundred at one point there. No fatalities, thankfully. A lot of the time, diseases like this really prey on the vulnerable. Children, elderly, the infirm—you know, I just realized that diseases tend to kill the same sort of people who don't have jobs here."

"Obviously, diseases promote a very harsh priority in society," Aicantar replied idly.

The Alftand Alchemist's doors were already wide open. The two of them arrived right as some Imperial man was walking out with a fistful of colorful mountain flowers. He offered them a sheepish nod as he edged on by.

A moment later, Aicantar just barely heard Sarelle murmur under her breath, "Oh, now that is sweet."

The room inside was fairly spacious, and thoroughly filled. All of the walls were crammed with shelves—starting with stone shelves at waist level, with additional, metal shelves above them—and all of the shelves were crammed with different potion bottles and reagent containers. Halfway across the room was a standard L-shaped counter made of recently-added plain stone, and behind it was a big work area with more shelves and counters and the like.

One of those counters had on it a long row of huge, curved chunks of pale blue rock, each standing on its end and tapering to a point on top. For a split second, Aicantar identified them as Aetherium ore. But then the rest of his mind caught up with him. These weren't rocks, these were ice wraith teeth. And Sarelle hadn't been kidding. They were honestly, truly giant. Usually, they weren't much larger than a person's thumb. These ones were the size of a person's forearm.

Sure enough, an Argonian was working at an alchemy lab in the back, but the L-shaped counter was being staffed by a young Redguard man whom Aicantar didn't recognize. He smiled and waved as the Altmer came in, with a cheerful greeting of, "Welcome to the Alftand Alchemist!"

"Thank you, Nedran," Sarelle said dryly. "I'm here as a customer this time, you don't need to do that."

Nedran, if that was this man's name, went immediately from his polite smile to a knowing smirk. He was a rather fun-looking fellow. He was fairly light in build and dark of skin, with his hair braided back in rows. And he was wearing the standard light clothes, but with a dark red leather vest on top, adorned with lots of little pouches and pockets. There was definitely some kind of story here.

He replied, "Well, if you want the ice wraith teeth, we've already sold five. To be honest, I don't even know what people want them for. But I'm not one to argue with good, honest gold."

Three ice wraith teeth sold. Aicantar hadn't expected that. He quickly counted the remaining teeth on the counter—it was an odd number, two groups of four with another in the middle, so nine. What kind of ice wraith had fourteen teeth big enough to recover?

A giant one, apparently. He could probably afford to ask himself smarter questions than that.

The Argonian in back set down whatever she was working on, and came up to join her ostensible assistant. It took Aicantar a bit to really identify her. Of all the races of Tamriel, the Argonians looked the least like the others. He only knew this one was a woman because she was wearing a blue-and-gray dress. Besides that, he only knew that she was rather small in stature, and had green-and-gray scales herself. And that she was old. It was obvious even in the way she walked.

"Good evening to the both of you," she said amiably. Her voice was weathered and rough with age. Aicantar didn't actually know the Argonian race's typical lifespan, but she must have been in its latter quarter or so. "Sarelle, you brought a friend today?"

Sarelle laughed. "Well, a little more than a friend, maybe. Uh… This is Aicantar. Aicantar, meet Treads-The-Leaves. You two might actually have quite a bit in common."

"Ah, is that so?" The Argonian laid her hands flat on the counter, and leaned forwards to peer intently at Aicantar. "An alchemist, then? Or simply a mage? You aren't needed to call me by all three words, by the way. Treads is fine."

"You said it, Treads," Nedran grinned.

Aicantar cleared his throat. "Well, uh… Mm. Nice to meet you, uh, Treads. I guess you could say I'm a mage and an alchemist. They go hand in hand a little. Ultimately, I'd describe myself as a scholar."

He wasn't really eager to share the fact that he'd been working in Blackreach lately. Since he couldn't get into any kind of detail about what exactly he even did down there, it wasn't much of a good conversation point.

Sarelle seemed to have the same idea, because she quickly changed the subject. "Mainly, we just wanted to come in and take a look at those teeth. Everyone's been talking about them. I'm actually a little surprised there aren't more people in here right now."

"There have been a few," Treads replied. "But it is rare for anyone to come in here simply to look around. Perhaps if the Shadow Unending continues much longer, there will be more spectacularly giant things to show off."

"I heard something about giant netches in Eastmarch," Aicantar murmured contemplatively.

The Argonian actually cackled in response. It was quite the thing to listen to. "Oh, mercy on the poor hunter who decides to fight those beasts. They are terrors enough even at normal size. The last time I saw one, it nearly took my head off."

Sarelle raised her eyebrows. "They have netches in Black Marsh now?"

"Who said I was from Black Marsh, child?" Treads paused momentarily, for emphasis. "I grew up in Morrowind. But I thought little of my brethren there. I know the ash as well as the snow, the snow as well as the shallows."

Aicantar frowned. "Is… is it normal for Argonians to be in Morrowind?"

"It is when they've invaded and occupied half of it," Sarelle said out the side of her mouth. "It's been like that for centuries, where've you been?"

"Reading the wrong history books, apparently," he muttered back. But that wasn't much for his dignity right now. Tread and Nedran were just standing there and staring blankly at him. This was another one of those moments where he was feeling the need to shrink into a tiny ball and die.

Fortunately, Sarelle came to the rescue with another change of subject. "So, uh… I understand that ice wraith teeth are good for invisibility potions, right?"

"By far, their most valuable use, definitely," Nedran nodded quickly, evidently just as glad to be off the topic of Aicantar's poor grasp of world history. "It's sort of… They're not exactly a _nice_ thing to be selling, because what kind of good things can you do with an invisibility potion, but you'd be surprised what kind of customers we get. A lot of the time it's just regular folk who are worried about another invasion of some sort. Invisibility's a much better protection than armor, if you don't plan on fighting back."

"Though these teeth in particular may still be worth more as trophies," Treads commented. "There will be more ice wraiths. But in ten years, these giant ones will likely remain unique."

Aicantar frowned. "What do you even use them with, up here? Ice wraith teeth, that is. I don't think there are many luna moths around Alftand."

"No, the go-to for invisibility is chaurus eggs," Nedran said.

"Chaurus eggs," Sarelle repeated flatly.

"Yes. I don't know all of the particulars, but there's some huge stockpile of them somewhere, I think maybe in Blackreach, and the Jarl's been slowly selling them off. I think all of the actual chaurus are _dead_ , so I don't know how he'll get more, but… I don't know. Maybe he'll let a few of them hatch."

Aicantar made a face. "Gods forbid. I've read about those things. They sound repulsive."

"Well, supposedly, the Falmer learned how to raise them," Sarelle shrugged. "Maybe we can just… ask them for a few pointers."

Treads snorted.

"Let's just cross that bridge when we come to it," Aicantar said. "I don't think anyone's _that_ desperate for more invisibility potions. Just… ugh." He shook his head slowly. He had no idea how the conversation had ended up going in this direction. Oh, right, it was because he'd utterly failed at Morrowind history. He should've been counting his blessings right now.

Sarelle reached over and gave him an affectionate shake on the shoulder. "Ahh, don't worry about it. We saw the teeth. Everything else is extra."

"You seem pretty knowledgeable about this stuff, Aicantar," Nedran smiled good-naturedly. "If you feel like coming around here again, I'd love to talk some shop with you. Always on the lookout for more alchemists."

Aicantar opened his mouth silently. For a moment, he was going to say something about his time in Blackreach, but then he thought better of it and just nodded. Even just saying he'd done potions down there was too much of a hint. "That'd be good." He returned the smile. "Maybe in return, one of you could tell me some history, huh?"

Treads snickered under her breath. "Where'd you grow up, boy?"

His smile turned a little sheepish at that. "Uh… Markarth. Was it that obvious?"

The old Argonian just eased off the counter and went back to her work at the alchemy lab. That left Nedran by himself again.

"Well, I think we've seen enough for now," Sarelle said, with a definitive sort of air. "Back to the ramp, Aicantar?" Not that it was much of a question. She was already heading back for the doors.

"Sure." Aicantar began to turn to follow her out, then stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Uh… I look forward to talking to you both again!"

Nedran just smiled and waved, like he had when they'd come in. "Always happy to serve the customers of Alftand. Have a good evening, you two."

Outside, the atrium was looking pretty much like before. People were still strolling about, heading from one door to another. The view over the railing wasn't too intimidating from up here. Or through the railing, rather. Because this room was so tall, the railing went up about four feet high, just for safety's sake. It was a pretty simple thing of bolted-together Dwemer metal pipes, all quite plain and smooth.

It was also one of the things the people here had added to Alftand after settling in. Nobody knew why the Dwemer had hated railings so much. But it had taken some work to keep this room from being a giant death trap.

Aicantar was probably just studying it so he could avoid thinking about how much of an idiot he'd just made of himself. He swallowed. Sometimes there just wasn't any hiding the truth.

Sarelle was tugging him by the elbow. Higher up the ramp, towards the rest of the atrium. "Come on," she said. "I'm not out of stops."

The Altmer followed along at a reluctant pace. People were passing by now and then, in both directions, but he didn't really care. After a little bit, he said, "I can't believe I didn't know that about Morrowind. I'm wondering what else I don't know, now."

"Oh, relax. Nobody pays attention to Morrowind anymore." Sarelle was unfazed. "It's sad to say, I know, but it's true. The Red Year erased most of it from the map, and most of their standing with the other provinces got erased just as well in the process. And I'm sure you know what the Red Year is."

Somehow, Sarelle had a way of making everything just feel better. Aicantar had been ready to consider that whole conversation a disaster, but apparently it wasn't. And he supposed Nedran had liked him well enough, if that hadn't just been a polite pretense on his part. Still, he had another conversation to pay attention to now.

"Mmm, the Red Year. That's the thing when Mehrunes Dagon invaded using his secret army from inside the moons, right?" Aicantar tapped his chin thoughtfully for a second, then laughed. "Sorry. Sorry, I know what it is."

The Breton stared at him for a few seconds, mouth agape in comical speechlessness, as they carried on walking. Eventually, she managed to get out, "The _moons_ , though? How did you even come up with that?"

"Well, one time I looked in the sky, and I noticed these big round things up there…"

"Yes, yes, thank you, and you looked at them and wondered what kind of armies were being raised inside."

Aicantar shrugged cheerfully. "Obviously, if they're floating in the sky, that means they're hollow, and that means people can do secret things inside. I learned about this from the ancient history book that I wrote in my imagination just now."

"You know, if you ever finish up with saving the world downstairs, you could probably take up a job writing mock scholarly books. They'd be great reading, if you're having ideas like that one." Sarelle grinned cheekily at him. Presumably, 'downstairs' was code for Blackreach. Usually, people just used the name, but that was good for keeping passersby in the dark. Aicantar would have to remember that one.

Still, here they were, heading up the atrium ramp, and he didn't actually know what they were doing it for. That was an easy fix. "So, uh… Where did you want to go next, exactly?"

Sarelle scratched her head for a moment, then brushed her hair back on either side. "Uh… I wanted to look at some new clothes, so probably the Steamstitch."

That was an interesting response. On one hand, it was totally unexpected. Aicantar hadn't been thinking of any shop in particular, but he definitely wouldn't have guessed that. On the other hand, maybe it should have been at least a little expected, because neither of them were particularly elaborately dressed. On the other-other hand, that was a familiar name. Steamstitch. He'd definitely heard it before.

"Oh, uh, I think my roommate Jenze works there," he said. "Maybe we'll run into her, if she's not busy using their big scary sewing device. Seriously, have you seen that thing?"

"I think so. I actually think I was there for that conversation, too. Uh… Big machine, kind of loud, looks like it could skewer your hand in a second? Takes about ten seconds to do a foot-long stitch? … That one?"

Aicantar nodded. "That's the one, yes. I'm actually… I don't know, do you think we're safe to be in the same shop at it? I feel like it might explode and hit us with terrifying needle pieces. Just, spontaneously. When we come in."

"Oh, please. It's perfectly safe. The only dangerous Dwemer machines in these cities are the ones that are _designed_ to kill people. So, about half of them, on average." Sarelle grinned again. "I think it'll be fine. I just… you know, I'm still saving up for a timepiece, but I'd like to get to look nicer in the meantime."

"Well, don't do it on my behalf. You're already as beautiful as I could ever ask for."

The Breton laughed and put an arm around his middle. "Oh, you are the best. No, uh… No, I've just wanted to try on something else. It might be nice to have something that's a different _color_ , at least. I don't feel like beige really compliments my skin that well."

Aicantar was only half-paying attention to her reply. He was busy enjoying the one-armed embrace. Even with them walking side by side like this, it was perfectly soft and nice. It was too bad they were out here in the atrium. This was making him yearn for some cuddling. He never even thought he'd like doing that with anyone, but here he was, with the woman of his dreams, and… for all the troubles going on, both in Alftand and across Skyrim, they couldn't have been that bad. Not when he had this.

Maybe daydreaming while on the ramp was a bad idea. He practically bumped right into a couple of people coming down. Guards, actually, on patrol. That was embarrassing. He stepped back reflexively.

"Sarelle? … Aicantar?" One of the guards asked. A big Nord fellow. As opposed to his partner, who was a big Imperial fellow.

"That's us," Sarelle said, before glancing to Aicantar with a smile. "Hey, people know your name now."

"We were looking for you," the Imperial said. "Would you mind coming with us?"

"Oh, uh… Sure," Aicantar nodded. The guards moved to either side of them, to escort them up the ramp. That made sense, though. The guardhouse was right up past the top of the atrium, by the doors to the frozen part of the ruin. He'd visited there, before.

Of course, on the way, they passed right by the Steamstitch. "Maybe on the way back," Sarelle said, when she saw him looking.

Aicantar glanced at the Nord guard beside him and asked, "So what's this about, exactly?"

"They'll explain once you're up there," the guard said simply. "I'm just here to fetch you."

"Right." Aicantar nodded. But he was already very curious about this, and not just because it was cutting into his evening with Sarelle. If there was a 'they' involved, this might be important. And there were all kinds of important things this could be.

The rest of the way up the ramp wasn't terribly long. They passed by the hydro-farms, and the smithies, and a few other similar facilities. But that was pretty much it. At the top, the ramp ended with a doorway out into a straight corridor. If one followed this path for long enough, they could actually walk all the way to the surface exit. Supposedly, anyway. Aicantar had never tried that himself. It was pretty cold up there.

And in any case, the guardhouse was much closer. It was a fairly compact space, with a square central room, a barracks area on the left, and a holding cell corridor on the right. Naturally, there were half a dozen guards sitting around in the central room alone. They all stood up as their new guests came in through the doorway.

"So," Aicantar said. "What exactly do you need me to…"

He was interrupted by an odd, metallic clicking noise to his left. A split second later, the Nord guard grabbed his wrists in one big, callused hand, and with the other, retrieved a Dwemer metal device from his belt. Aicantar didn't even have time to recognize what it was before it came down and clicked together over his own wrists. Manacles. They'd just put a pair of manacles on him.

And beside him, Sarelle was standing there with manacles on her wrists too. They'd both just been put in chains. Just now, right here in the guardhouse.

This didn't make any sense. Someone was closing the doors behind them. And all of the guards were closing in, like they were coming for an attack. He had no idea why. But more than anything, right then, he was feeling a horrible surge of panic. It hadn't been this bad since Markarth. This was like Markarth again.

The Imperial guard said, "By the order of the Jarl, we are placing you both under arrest."

Aicantar stared in disbelief. This was making less and less sense by the second. Why was this happening to him? Had it been too much for him to have a peaceful life here in Alftand? It was falling apart right before his eyes. "But… but…" His command of words was not helping him right now. "What did I do? I don't understand."

Two guards came up behind him and grabbed onto his upper arms and shoulders. Another started searching him, reaching into his pockets, taking his things away. Were they expecting a fight from him? He wasn't about to give one. He couldn't imagine why he would. But they were pushing him towards the holding cell room. By the Nine, he was actually under arrest.

Behind him, the Imperial guard continued talking. "You've both been accused of high treason. You'll remain in our custody until the time of your trials."

Treason. When Aicantar heard that word, a painful, shocking jolt went through his chest. This was as serious as could be. He knew exactly what sort of punishment traitors received in Skyrim. He gasped for more words. "Wh—I don't—I didn't do anything, don't do this! What do you think I did?"

The Imperial's response was simple: "You handed vital secrets to an enemy agent."

He'd done _what?_

They were coming into the holding cell room already. There were ten cells in here, five to a side, with sliding barred metal doors and thick stone walls. Aicantar was about to go into one of these. He was under arrest for treason, and… and…

He glanced sideways at Sarelle. She was being pushed right along with him. But she wasn't panicked in the slightest. The look on her face was nothing more than a grim scowl of determination. Or resignation.

In that instant, looking at Sarelle's face, Aicantar realized it. He realized it, and everything he'd ever thought in Alftand turned upside-down. The jolt that went through him this time was ten times as awful as the last.

Sarelle was the enemy agent. And she always had been. Ever since the start.

The guards opened up the nearest cell on the right, and shoved him in. On the way, they did something to take the chain off his manacles, but the metal bands stayed on his wrists. Aicantar heard the door slide closed and lock up behind him, but he didn't bother looking. It didn't matter.

He didn't even know which secrets this was about. He'd told Sarelle so much about the goings-on in Blackreach. It could've been anything. And he was surprising himself, right now. He sort of expected himself to try and hope this was a mistake, that Sarelle was innocent after all. But it made too much sense. All he had to do was accept that it had all been a lie.

Another door slid shut, next to his own. They'd put Sarelle right by him.

And that was it. There were lots of audible footsteps as the guards left the corridor. Aicantar looked at the cell around him. It really was small. There was a bed, a basin, a commode, and that was it. All of it was built into the back wall, in a row, left to right. This was his… this was where he was, now. Inside a cell.

He turned around slowly. A barred door was in between him and the hallway. He stared at it for a moment in silent disbelief, then turned in a full circle, just taking in this chamber he was in. He was trapped in here. The panic was still there. He could barely breathe.

From somewhere, Sarelle's voice said, "I'm sorry, Aicantar."

The Altmer stumbled his way up to the door, then slumped against the wall by the next cell on. He couldn't keep standing up. He sank down to his knees, and after a moment, just sat down right there on the floor. There was still a guard standing on watch by the doors. He could see the man from here. But it didn't matter right then. It just didn't matter.

Sarelle had just apologized to him. He didn't even know what to think of that.

But her voice continued. "I knew you were important, from the start. I was in the room when you gave your information. You said you'd come in on a dragon. And the only way you could've done that was by befriending someone from Blackreach."

Aicantar's mind had gone blank. He could do nothing but listen in silent horror.

"I knew it would end this way, sooner or later. But if I could just get something about what was going on down there… Jarl Korir said he'd accept anything I gave him. And all I ever wanted was to make the Empire pay." She laughed darkly. "I guess it worked."

The Empire. Now it made sense what Sarelle had done. It had been the legionnaires. Those legionnaires he'd seen coming in from the Great Lift, being escorted by Kamian. She'd sent Jarl Korir a letter containing Aicantar's account of that. And then that had turned into… into something that'd come back to them.

It probably wasn't even a coincidence that Jarl Noster had been made High King yesterday. Probably, that was actually how he'd found out about this.

This whole thing was going to make him sick. Five minutes ago, his life had been nothing but splendid. Now that was all gone. He couldn't bear this. He'd been used. He'd been used for weeks and weeks on end, and he'd gone right along with every minute of it. And now, because of what he'd ended up doing, his life was basically over.

"But… Aicantar…" Now Sarelle's voice faltered. "What we had together, that was real. I've really come to love you. And I'm sorry it came to this. I don't expect you to understand why I had to do this. But I was always going to be sacrificed. It's… it's what I'm here for. To be sacrificed to carry on the fight of my people. And I'm all right with that. I... I didn't think it'd happen like this. I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I dragged you into this, to begin with. It's not your fault. You're such a good person, Aicantar. I just want—"

"Stop." It was the only word Aicantar could get himself to say. He took a trembling breath in. "Just… stop, please. Stop."

Sarelle went silent. That was worth something.

Aicantar turned and laid his back against the wall. At some point, he'd started crying. He hadn't even noticed, but his face was totally wet. He wiped at it with the heels of his hands. It helped a little. But more tears were coming. He couldn't stop them.

This was where his life had ended up. He was sitting in a cell, accused of treason against the High King. He was a prisoner. And his lover was in a cell next to him. And while he'd loved her, she'd… lied to him. She'd lied to him, and used him, and betrayed him, and it was the worst thing he could ever imagine, and it was really happening to him right now.

There was nothing good that could come of this. Sarelle had won. She'd gotten what she'd wanted. And Aicantar had lost. And now they were both doomed because of what she'd done.

Aicantar laid his face in his hands. Time passed by in silence.

He'd had such a good life here.


	50. Unnamed 2

In the limitless empty space beyond all creation, there was only him.

Here, Time was meaningless. An eternity was the same as an instant. There was no before, there was no during, there was no after. There was only a single, transfixed state of banishment.

He knew he had done this to himself. He had failed in his mission, and this had been his only choice. And yet there was still no before. He had always been here, and always would be, and he had never been here, and never would be. But this was his own doing. This was his fault.

In this transfixed non-state, the only reality he knew was that he deserved this.

Eras might have gone by. Eras, or moments, he could not tell. Those were meaningless ideas now. There was nothing here, not even thoughts. Not even his thoughts could move here. There was nothing.

But then a change occurred. Despite its impossibility, a change occurred, from one moment to the next. There was nothing, and then there was something.

Cold metal claws grabbed onto him. Did he have a physical form? This was painful. He knew only the sensation of these digits gouging into him. They were holding onto him, holding tight.

And in the very next instant—the next eternity, the next instant—they pulled him back. With an unstoppable wrenching yank, they tore him out of his state of non-being, and cast him into another realm.

The flow of Time had resumed. All was not over.

Turdas, 4:44 PM, 70th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Shivering Isles

He hit the ground hard on his chest. Pain shot through him, tingling pain, through every inch of his body—but he had a body now—it was incomprehensible. His voice made a distant, indistinct sound of discomfort.

Somewhere, a voice spoke. "Relax. You are safe now."

Safe? Had there been a danger? He willed himself to open his eyes. He was encased in a shell of clothing and armor, all familiar things, all comprehensible. Did he know what this was? He must have known what this was.

He must have known what had happened before the existence beyond Time. Here, there most certainly was a before. But these truths made no sense. All he knew was that he existed once more, and there was nothing yet to feel besides pain.

"Ah..." That was his own voice, making that sound. He tried to focus his vision, to understand what was around him.

There were shapes here, shapes of many colors. It took time to recognize them all. Beneath him was a hard stone brick floor, surrounded by stone courtyard walls, with a cloudy gray sky above. And standing before him was a giant statue of ornate steel. Or, not a statue, but an automaton. But not an automaton, either. He didn't understand it.

He slowly pushed himself up to his knees. Removed the metal mask from his face, let it fall to the ground, took in a deep breath of cool fresh air. There was no fear, no distress for him to feel in this moment. Perhaps those things would come soon. But at this moment, all he knew was what he had felt, what he had not felt and then what he had felt, and it was a plain truth that he knew too little to say more.

The automaton, or whatever the creature was, lowered itself onto one knee, then reached down with a great metallic hand and gently helped him up to his feet. He had never seen a creature such as this. There was clearly no flesh beneath the armor. It was articulated, but massive and exaggerated, and somehow all made of solid metal, ridged and flanged, widened wherever there were joints. Its waist was slender, yet its chest was broad and its shoulders were broader still, with huge pauldrons to complete the triangular image. Four long, thin spikes stood from its back, two on either side of its head. And its head… it was built in the shape of a helmet, with three huge prongs forking above a single ridge down the center, as for a visor. Beneath was an impassive mask of a human face, rendered in the same metal as all the rest.

He asked, "Who are you?"

The metal creature replied to him in a deep, resonating voice, filled with dignity and majesty. "I am Jyggalag. The Daedric Prince of Order. Once known as Sheogorath, the Madgod. Once before, known as the Hero of Kvatch. Many names have passed beyond my mantle. But now I am one."

He had never known of this Daedric Prince. But if this being had taken the place of Sheogorath, perhaps that was welcome. He understood so little now, but he did understand what these beings were. "And… who am I?"

"You do not remember your path through Time? You are Miraak. You cast yourself out of the flow of Time, late in the year 201 of the Fourth Era. It is now year 202."

Miraak. Yes, that was his name.

The memories returned to him quickly. He had been an Atmoran, at the time when his race existed so. He had become a Dragon Priest, a servant of Alduin and all those under his reign. And he had rebelled against Alduin's rule, an act that had resulted in him taking refuge in Apocrypha, the realm of Hermaeus Mora.

And then Hermaeus Mora had deceived him into exiting the flow of Time. He had thought doing so would let him would save the world. The memory filled him with a surge of terrible anger. He had been betrayed by his own master. He had been shown the value of goodness and empathy, and had those very ideas twisted against him.

But he soon cleared his mind of such thoughts. There were more important ones to have. For example: only one single year had passed? He could not have guessed how long he had been away, but it could have been millennia. This felt unlikely.

He asked, "What do you desire from me?"

"Mundus is being endangered once again. And I cannot determine its fate." Jyggalag paused, then stood back up slowly. "Order is a strange thing. It is not the same as repetition, or organization, or even simple control. It is the process of cause and effect. That is my domain as a Daedric Prince. The others of my kind rightly feared what power I wielded, knowing what causes would lead to what effects. That was why they cursed me with madness." He paused. "Now they're dead and I'm sane."

"What?" The words made perfect sense as Miraak heard them, but he could not believe them all the same. Daedric Princes did not die. They were as eternal as the planes upon which they resided. Perhaps this was not a literal wording. That happened sometimes with these beings.

"Cause and effect," Jyggalag repeated. "You rebelled against Alduin, using the power of your Thu'um aided by Daedric magic. Alduin responded by cursing the remaining dragon priests to never use Words of Power again. The dragon priest Konahrik responded by devising a mask to let him use the world-altering essence of the Thu'um, except without any words to constrain its form. He then rebelled, as you did, but Alduin crushed him completely. However, the remaining dragon priests found and hid his mask. Never had such a powerful artifact fallen into their hands.

"Meanwhile, you sought protection in Apocrypha. But Alduin was cast forward in Time shortly afterward. The Nords of old rebelled against the Dragon Cult, and Alduin was banished using an Elder Scroll. Eras passed without him. He did not reappear until last year, when the emergence of the Last Dragonborn heralded his arrival."

"I don't know this Dragonborn," Miraak said.

A trace of amusement entered Jyggalag's voice. "You're going to want to. Something strange happened with his coming. Alduin re-emerged into the flow of Time, but the Dragonborn foretold by the Elder Scrolls was not the one to defeat him. Another Dragonborn also came forth. A product of another being, a mortal overseer, with interest of his own in cause and effect. The overseer remains distant from his world, but the new Dragonborn has embraced his role."

"I presume this story has some sort of ending at some point," Miraak said.

There was a long pause. The two of them stared silently at one another.

Then Jyggalag said, "Basically, there are two Dragonborn brothers now, Kamian and Iseus. Kamian is the prophesied Dragonborn, and slew many of the other Dragon Priests in anticipation of Alduin's arrival. But Iseus was the one to defeat Alduin, in the fields of Sovngarde. A long series of causes and effects followed, until he put on the mask of Konahrik, and became a god in mortal form. One might consider it a form of CHIM. With no Words of Power to constrain it, the magic of the Thu'um is limited only by thoughts."

"So what did he do with that power?"

"He scoured the planes of Oblivion, and destroyed or altered everyone he judged as harmful to Mundus. I am among the ones he altered. All he had to do was remove my curse of madness, and the rest fell into place."

That was impossible. It had to be. The Daedric Princes were eternal ideas, not mortal forms. They could not be slain. But if Miraak understood this correctly, then they had not been slain at all—they had been _erased_. Never since the dawn of Time had anyone ever done something so great. If he ever met this Iseus, he would have to bow down in awe.

But then another thought came to him. "Is Hermaeus Mora—"

"He is gone. As it happens, it was he who unlocked Iseus' thoughts to begin with. It was a brutal transformation, one that Iseus undertook willingly. But this is why his grasp of forbidden knowledge was inferior to my grasp of order. For all of his dark secrets, he could not see that removing the constraints of Iseus' humanity would be his own undoing. He saw Iseus as a champion. A servant. But he was betrayed, and he never stood a chance."

Never mind the matter of bowing down in awe. If Miraak ever meant this Iseus, he would have to give the man the warmest embrace in the world. By Jyggalag's account—and Miraak was inclined to trust him, considering what his sphere encompassed—Iseus had succeeded where Miraak had failed. Not only in saving the world from destruction, but also in giving justice to Hermaeus Mora. That was a pleasant thought indeed.

Miraak would never have to face that many-eyed disaster of a Daedric Prince again. He had never had a happier thought.

Still, other thoughts took precedence. He asked, "In that case, why did you bring me here?"

"The Oblivion Purge, as it has been called, was a success. Five Daedric Princes remain, including myself. The others are Azura, Meridia, Nocturnal and Trinimac. None of us desire any harm to come to Mundus. But there is one other who still does. Cause, and effect. Much of Oblivion is gone, and with it has gone the veil between Aetherius and Mundus. This gave Alduin the chance to reassemble himself, and resume his mission anew."

Alduin. That made some amount of sense. But not very much. "Why hasn't Iseus simply erased him also?"

"His power in that regard was depleted after the Oblivion Purge. Now, it is all he can do to keep Alduin from doing more. None of us know where Alduin is, besides that he is likely in Tamriel still. And none of us know what precisely he has done."

"What do we know?"

Jyggalag paused briefly. "… Today is the 73rd of Second Seed. The month of the Shadow Unending. By a means unknown even to me, Alduin has frozen the path of Aetherius in place, and its magic is slowly burning Mundus to ash. Simply put, Iseus is not enough to face this challenge. Neither are his mortal allies, and neither am I. We're going to need all the help we can get."

"Well, then, he should count me among his allies now." Miraak said this with complete confidence. At the moment, he was unsure how he could help, exactly. And he suspected Jyggalag wasn't entirely sure either, which was an unsettling thought. But he would work with this. He had been given a second chance. Few people ever received that blessing.

Which led him to another thought, and perhaps one he had asked much earlier. "How did you recover me? I thought myself lost forever. I was outside Time."

But the reply was perhaps predictable. "Cause and effect, Miraak. You cast yourself outside Time. I simply followed in your footsteps. I knew you still existed, even if it was in no form we could see. On a map of the Aurbis through the eras—a map of Mundus, Oblivion, Aetherius and the Void—you would have been on the floor on the far side of the room. But I knew where to find you, and that was all I needed."

Miraak couldn't help but chuckle. This was the first time he had known mirth for longer than he could remember. He savored it. "Ahh… I must admit, I expected you to be much more of a dour sort."

"Humor is no more than the strategic subversion of expectation. And for a Daedric Prince whose sphere is to expect all events before they come, that makes it pretty damn hard to find anything funny." Did he just say 'pretty damn hard'? That sounded positively absurd from such a towering and epic figure. "But during my time as the Madgod, my identity took many turns. The most recent was the Hero of Kvatch. And if she were here speaking to you, you would be rolling on the floor by now. I am simply left to reconcile these facets of my identity as I am able. No doubt, my diction betrays this."

This couldn't have been much less expected. Miraak had wholly and honestly believed his life forfeit. And now, his entire existence was changing. Part of his mind had yet to move on from that.

But it sounded as though he wasn't the only one. The Daedric Prince of Madness had become something entirely different. Miraak had never crossed paths with him in his previous form, but it had to be presumed that Jyggalag, as he was now, made for much more pleasant company. Having spent as much time as he had in Apocrypha, Miraak had a general idea of what madness looked like. He had been exposed to quite enough of it already.

Still, here he was. Wherever he was.

Miraak turned away from Jyggalag slowly, and looked around the stone courtyard. They were alone here. There was nothing to recognize, nothing to identify. The courtyard was very spacious, and had stairways and cloisters and exits to other places, but it was all unmarked and plain. It could have been anywhere.

He asked, "Where are we?"

"We are in my plane of Oblivion. The Shivering Isles, as my less sane self named it. Long was this plane haunted by the specter of my original nature. The chaos of Sheogorath was always opposed by the order of Jyggalag, and it was a conflict without a victor. But that time is past—for in the end, order and chaos are one and the same. With that revelation, the Shivering Isles are now a realm of peace. You are safe here."

"Then clearly, I must leave as soon as I am able. If Mundus still has need of me, I will not leave it behind. Not again." Miraak turned his gaze up at the sky above. He wondered what mortals had looked upon it before him.

"That time will come," Jyggalag replied evenly. "Before it does, there is much you must do to prepare. The world has changed vastly from what you know, even in this span of months."

That was easy enough to accept. It was true that things often stayed the same for great stretches of time—by the standards of immortal beings, a century's wait was no more than a brief pause—but mortals acted much more quickly, and Miraak understood that well. If what Jyggalag had said about the mask of Konahrik was true, then likely all of the changes in this so-called span of months were simply the product of Iseus' rise to power.

But where did that leave Miraak himself?

He looked down again, and this time simply examined his own person. Besides his face, all of his body was encased in the robes of his priesthood. Elegant black fabric, layered in imposing angles, decorated with gilded trim, and armored with lustrous dragon scales at the shoulders and wrists. There was a large, elaborate flat ornament of thick golden wire upon the clasp of his belt, and above his elbows he had armbands of similar make, securing the short sleeves of his robes where they transitioned to his gauntlets.

This was the apparel he had worn during his reign in the Dragon Cult, and then continued wearing for endless centuries in Apocrypha. Now, it covered him like a second skin. He imagined it might appear rather frightening to one unaccustomed to its sight. Once, that had likely been its exact intended purpose.

Miraak rather enjoyed that both he and Jyggalag were taking for granted the ultimate goal of safeguarding the well-being of Mundus. Never would he have expected a Daedric Prince to take such a deep interest in something not inherently tied to their own sphere. More often than not, they were willing, even eager, to wreak destruction upon the mortal world to their own ends. And the exceptions would still care for nothing but the most self-centered interpretations of their interests.

His mask was still on the ground behind him. He knelt down, picked it up in a gloved hand, and turned it around to examine its obverse side. It was wrought in the likeness of Hermaeus Mora's tentacle-laden Seekers, with only the eye slits to demonstrate some sort of humanity beneath. It was also powerfully enchanted, and he enjoyed wearing it, so he proceeded to put it back on.

Another thing he rather enjoyed was that by any typical mortal standard, he and Jyggalag both looked simply terrifying. Of course, this had no bearing on their priorities or even their personalities. But even if Miraak no longer cared to dominate anyone, or inflict any sort of needless suffering of any sort, he had to admit that this was perhaps a little entertaining.

Clearly, the message at hand was that Miraak was now in a situation he might have a chance to enjoy. That was unexpected.

"You look all the better with that on," Jyggalag commented.

Again, Miraak had to laugh. He simply could not help it. "You must be aware that in all the time I spent in Apocrypha, Hermaeus Mora never once commented on my appearance."

The Daedric Prince shook his head slowly. "All those eyes, and he still couldn't see how slick your outfit is."

As he fought to regain his composure from that remark, Miraak managed to say, "I must admit, I didn't realize you could move your neck. I thought your helmet was fixed in place."

"This body is a solid piece of metal. It can move any way I feel like."

"Is it all right if I ask you a question?" Admittedly, the transition was more off-handed than he liked, but he should have asked this quite a while ago.

"Ask all you like. It's if I have to ask _you_ any questions that you should be concerned."

"What's the drawback in all of this? I've never seen a dealing with a Daedric Prince that didn't involve something in their favor. You just rescued me from a fate beyond all existence, which should let you exact any price—"

"Let me stop you right there." Jyggalag held up both of his hands in Miraak's direction. "I understand what your concern is. I'm not here to make you into my new champion-slave. Were I of that mentality, I would likely be concerned with the indignity of picking up Hermaeus Mora's leftovers. But this is not a game of possession, and I recognize you as more than that."

And here, Miraak had been about to take that remark as something of an affront. Perhaps Jyggalag had anticipated his reaction. Which led him to another point: "Do I have any actual choice in any of this? Surely, you can say and do whatever you need to in order to bend me to your desired outcome."

Jyggalag made an annoyed sound. "This... this is the sort of thing that made all the other Daedric Princes curse me with madness. They were so terrified of having their choices exposed to me. But Iseus returned me to this state for a reason. He trusted me with this power. You should as well."

"So be it, then." On one hand, Miraak had yet to be presented with any true evidence that this Iseus individual even existed. On the other hand, here Jyggalag was, fully cured of madness, and blessed with a sense of humor on top of that. It was hard to refute such a change. "But, still… do you believe I can still make any sort of true choice in response to you?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Here, I will explain. My sphere allows me to predict how you may react to what I say and do. But I cannot change who you fundamentally are, nor do I have the power to contrive circumstances to make you act entirely unlike yourself. The most that I can do is speak to you very persuasively. Any particularly charismatic mortal could do the same.

"You might think that my power of prediction would make me a better manipulator. But any Daedric Prince inclined to manipulate others will do so with consistent success. It's nearly exclusively the way they've dealt with mortals, and they've often attempted to do the same to one another. The only difference in my case is that during my dealings and bids for power, I've always been able to see through their lies. And that's terrified them."

"You make it sound as though you were something of a victim in all of this," Miraak said.

"Well, I didn't exactly come up with the curse-of-madness idea on my own."

He paused for a moment, in thought. "Now, if you can predict everything, then when I'm talking to you—"

"Why don't I finish all of your sentences for you? Or better yet, skip entirely over the part where you talk, and reply to all of your thoughts as they come into your head."

"… Yes."

"I don't like doing that." Jyggalag shook his head again. "It's rather unhelpful on the other person's side, as well. It's important to let them have their say. The direction of the conversation would change if they didn't, and not for the better. Trust me. I can predict it."

That was good enough, then. Miraak nodded. "I see. It does seem… ah…" Or perhaps it wasn't quite good enough after all. His curiosity had been piqued. He took a moment to consider his future in Tamriel, then asked, "What am I thinking right now?"

"Oh, don't do this to me… all right, fine, you're thinking of Solstheim. You're wondering what it looks like these days. You'd find it quite sad, by the way. There's quite a lot of ash on its southern portion now, from Red Mountain."

"I suspected as much," Miraak said softly. He'd been hoping to revisit there, at some point. Assuming that he wouldn't scare them all too much to do anything.

"… Now you're thinking about what you can do to help them, once this is over. And you're considering leaving your mask behind for it. And now you're thinking of the number five, just to throw me off."

"Damn it."

"And now you're wondering what my voice would sound like if I were singing." Jyggalag raised his arms outward a little, and promptly began a low, deep melody. "Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart—"

"Thank you, thank you, that's very much appreciated," Miraak cut in hastily.

Jyggalag lowered his arms again, unperturbed. "You did ask."

He could only nod in resignation. "That I did."

"You should look into the rest of that song, by the way, if you're not aware of it. Its title is The Dragonborn Comes. As the First Dragonborn, you might find its lyrics oddly suitable for you. Of course, as a dragon priest, a great deal of our situation is suitable also."

"I'm sure," he said flatly. "… Wait. What are you saying?"

"Well, this isn't exactly the first time I've made an effort to give aid to a priest in their time of need. The last one was even a priest of Akatosh." Jyggalag paused. "He also died, so don't do that."

Miraak pondered that for a moment. He'd seen a great deal of history laid out before him, when he'd stepped out of the flow of Time. And Jyggalag had mentioned once bearing the identity of the Hero of Kvatch. That was a name from the time of the Oblivion Crisis. The rest came to him in an instant.

"Martin Septim," he said quietly.

Jyggalag's voice lowered to the same tone. "Yes. He's still out there, in a sense. He's one with Akatosh now. But… my knowledge only reaches so far. The preciousness of mortal life has no place in the dispassionate view of order. When I wonder why I must hold high such fleeting, ephemeral instances of life… I think of him. Fleeting was my time with him, indeed. But I did admire him. Even now, even in this form, I have not relinquished his memory. He would only find it fair that I treat all mortals as I felt for him."

Miraak stared in silent awe. Never would he have expected a Daedric Prince to admit to any thoughts of this sort. To care for any mortal, genuinely, beyond their existence as a pawn in a greater scheme—his first thought was that it was impossible.

But now his curiosity compelled him once again. He had only one question to ask. "… Did you love him?"

Jyggalag's metallic visage was as unchanging and impassive as it had ever been. But Miraak wondered what feelings were taking place behind it. And this truly was a first. For all the time that he could remember, never had he stopped and taken consideration for what emotions a Daedric Prince felt. Now, it was among the most crucial questions he could have ever asked.

The seconds stretched on in silence.

Eventually, Jyggalag answered. His words were slow and deliberate, more so than normal. "I suspect that when Iseus removed my curse of madness, he did not do it for the Daedric Prince of Order. I suspect that he did it for the Hero of Kvatch. This is only a suspicion, for his decisions tread at the very edge of my sphere of understanding. But he must have been aware of what identity lay within the mantle of the Madgod. He chose to offer that identity a chance for redemption. Love has been only a distant, sorrowful memory of mine. I hope to give it new life in the eras to come."

Hope. For a being whose sphere of existence was based all on cold expectation, there couldn't have been a more surprising word. Whatever had happened here, it had been profound.

It was time to say something in response to this. Miraak was having difficulty coming up with anything suitably eloquent. Eventually, he settled on a terse but solemn affirmation. As he did, he wondered if Jyggalag anticipated this response as well—but it didn't stop him from saying it aloud.

"Thank you for telling all of this to me. I will do my best to do right by you."

Jyggalag nodded silently.

Then, by way of changing the subject, Miraak added: "You mentioned that there was something I needed to do here before traveling to Mundus. Was there something specific you had in mind?"

"Yes. There's someone I wanted you to meet. He'll be here in twenty seconds."

"… What?"

"Cause and effect," Jyggalag said, like a reminder. "I knew he'd be coming at a particular time, so I extracted you into my plane, in this courtyard, some minutes beforehand. He knows there is something here he should see, but I did tell him to take his time."

Miraak sighed. He supposed he'd be talking to someone new in a moment, then. He did his best to prepare himself for that. But as he did, an unrelated thought occurred to him. "If your power of prediction is that exact, why is there still a Shadow Unending?"

"I can predict things very well. I'm not absolutely all-knowing." But that was all that Jyggalag was able to say, because at that moment, their new company arrived.

The arrival came in the form of an aura of conjuration. A swirling, humming orb of purple light, blossoming into existence right there at Miraak's side. When it completed its cycle and vanished, there was a robed elf standing next to him. Gray of skin, red of eyes, neatly bearded, somewhat old-looking. The coloration was that of a Dunmer. Miraak was distantly familiar with this race. He had learned of them only when he had stepped out of the flow of Time, after all those centuries in Apocrypha. Strange, to see one of them here now.

Jyggalag said, "Miraak, meet Savos Aren, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. Savos Aren, meet Miraak, the First Dragonborn."


	51. Ria 9

**I'd like to thank my readers for the reviews they've been putting on this story recently. They mean a whole lot for me. The time that goes into writing this stuff feels a lot more worthwhile when I know what result it's getting. So, thanks for that!**

Tirdas, 3:56 PM, 75th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Whiterun

"You know, I'm supposed to be twenty-two today."

Erik's voice snapped Ria out of her reverie. She blinked a couple times and tried to focus on him. "What?"

"If the Shadow Unending weren't on, today would've been the 14th of Sun's Height. I bet a lot of people are getting their birthdays put off by this."

The two of them were sitting on the steps outside Jorrvaskr, looking out over the Wind District. Half an hour ago, they'd been sparring out back behind the porch, and now they were sitting here, freshly changed beneath their armor, and enjoying the cool air. Sparring with wooden practice swords, of course. Sometimes, the more foolhardy Companions liked to try to practice with their regular weapons, but somehow Ria suspected that Selthrei wouldn't enjoy that.

Because Selthrei was obviously a person. Ria was having a really hard time _not_ thinking of it as one. It was like having a little straight-bladed battlemage hanging from her belt all the time.

"That's true," she nodded, trying to focus on what was actually going on around her. "Gods, what about all the babies being born in this time? Who wants to be born under the sign of the Shadow Unending?"

"And you know we're probably not going to have a 75th of Second Seed next year. You think they'll just count the birthdays on the 31st or something?"

"Well, unless High King Noster issues some grand edict about it, I imagine the mothers of Skyrim will have to just use their own judgment." After all, the Moot _had_ finally taken place. The Jarl of Blackreach was now the High King of Skyrim. Probably deservedly, if he was doing things like sending the Ebony Warrior to save Whiterun from rogue volcanoes.

Erik made a thoughtful noise. "I hear he's issuing plenty of those anyway. You see those strange little metal pads the guards have?"

"No."

"Oh! Uh, I heard about it from Commander Caius the other day, it's a whole big thing." Talos only knew why Erik was talking to the head of the Whiterun city guard. He kept talking as though that weren't a concern. "In Blackreach Hold, they have these little magical dwarven metal tablets that they use for security. You put your hand on them, and it… well, it scans over your soul, pretty much. Everyone's is a little different, so it's a way to see who you are. High King Noster is handing them out to all the guards in Skyrim."

Ria scratched her head. That sounded like a bit of an invasive device. On the other hand, the only time she ever heard about things happening with people's souls was when they were getting trapped and put in soul gems. Not the best starting point for that one. "We're… I don't know, we're not in _that_ much need for security, are we? I know they are in Blackreach, but…"

"Well, no, they're… they're not using it for that. When the guards arrest someone now, they'll scan the person, and send the results back to Blackreach. If they have a bounty on them in any hold of Skyrim, we'll know."

And suddenly, it all made sense. A slow smile grew on Ria's face. "No more hold-hopping to continue being a criminal, then?"

"One of many changes to come, by the sound of it. Did you know Noster used to be a beggar?"

Ria's smile turned to a rather confused frown. "No, I didn't. Did you learn that from Commander Caius, too, then?"

"Farengar, actually. I was up in Dragonsreach to talk to the Steward, thought I'd pay our wizard friend a visit too. Turns out Noster's not only an Imperial Legion veteran, but he spent a good couple decades just sitting around in the streets of Solitude. Poor fellow couldn't find any work, after his war injuries."

"So now we have a beggar High King, is what you're saying."

"Well, former beggar. But I don't think Skyrim's poor could be much luckier. How many kings have seen the world from their point of view?"

"I think there was a prince who almost did, but then the Companions chopped off his mentor's head."

Erik laughed loudly. "Yes! I, uh, I think… I think someone actually just made that up."

"Mmm, you're probably right," Ria nodded. "Princes never get to just wander the streets like that. Unrealistic."

A few seconds went by in contemplative silence. Ria wasn't sure how everyone else in the city—or even the province—was going to view someone like Noster becoming High King, but the man _had_ been duly voted in. Someone must have thought that putting him in charge of Skyrim was a good idea.

Then she asked, "What were you doing talking to Commander Caius, anyway?"

"Huh? Oh, uh… Nothing much, I just wanted to check in with him after the… you know, after the volcano." Erik laughed sheepishly. "Not something I get to say every day."

Down below in the Wind District, two people were coming up towards the stairs. Athis and Njada, actually, in their full battle gear. That was surprising. They were supposed to be out on some kind of job. They'd only left for it yesterday.

Furthermore, they were both carrying big heavy sacks of some hefty solid shapes over their shoulders. Those were a little ominous.

Ria stood up slowly and waved down to them. "Hail, Companions! … How'd it go?"

Athis called back up, "You're not going to believe this."

He and Njada walked right up to the base of the stairs together, but then Njada stopped, and just set her sack down on the ground next to her. She promptly sat down on the lowest step of the staircase, with the sack nearly touching her feet. No one nearby on the street seemed to find that odd at all.

At this point, Erik stood up too. "What's going on?"

"We need to bring these to Dragonsreach," Njada called up. "For study. Uh… Athis, would you mind?"

Athis called over his shoulder, "Just go! I'll catch up with you in a moment." He was still climbing the stairs, step by step, with the big heavy sack over his back. It looked terribly heavy.

Erik and Ria stepped back to make room as their fellow Companion joined them at the top, beneath the big entry arch. For a moment, the three of them just stood there, staring at each other. Then Erik asked, "What's going on, exactly?"

Meanwhile, Njada had already stood up again, and was sauntering off towards Dragonsreach with her mystery cargo. That was that, then.

In response to Erik's question, Athis dumped his own sack on the ground, then knelt down and started untying the drawstring at the top. "We were out in the volcano's leftover ash," he said, before pausing hesitantly. "We'd heard reports of some strange creatures out there. Now, we've been fighting red draugr for weeks on end, so I took that in stride. But… all right, brace yourselves. I hope you two didn't eat recently."

And then he pulled the sack open. The contents were suddenly plain to view.

At first, all Ria saw was a mass of gray and black shapes. Then, over a horribly drawn-out few seconds of uncertainty, she realized what they were. The entire sack was filled with severed heads. Hairless, gray-skinned, pointy-eared. But all of their faces were completely wrong. Some of them were missing everything from their nose to their brow, with just an empty black cavity in their skulls. Some had their whole face, just the entire thing, hollowed out and replaced with big fat boneless trunk-like snouts. They looked so unlike normal heads, Ria couldn't even bring herself to feel revolted by them. They didn't even look real.

And because of how bizarre the things looked, it took her a few seconds to realize that there was no blood. The severed flesh of their necks was gray and dusty-looking. Full of nothing but ash.

"This is what we found," Athis said, before closing the sack up once more. "Njada was ready to leave them all there, but I recognized them. I've heard stories about these, at least. What I don't understand is what they're doing here in this era. So we brought back the heads for study, and a few of the hearts."

Ria looked up. Erik was staring down at the sack, completely speechless, his jaw agape. He was actually looking a little pale.

Then she looked back down and asked, "What do you mean, in this era?"

"These are creatures of the ash. They were Dunmer, once. Like myself. But then they were corrupted by Dagoth Ur's influence, and transformed into… these things." Athis pulled the drawstring tight again, tied it back up, and slung the sack over his shoulder again as he stood up. "There's just one problem," he grunted. "Dagoth Ur was slain over two hundred years ago. Before the Red Year, before the Oblivion Crisis. He's gone now. These creatures have no reason to exist anymore."

Erik had taken to bracing an arm against the side of the arch. He took a deep breath in. "Well, we… we _did_ get a temporary volcano. How many volcanoes are there in Tamriel?"

Athis paused for a couple seconds, his eyes narrowed curiously. "… I'll be honest, I don't know the answer to that question. But now I'd like to find out. Still, there's only one volcano that anyone really cares about, and it's still spewing ash everywhere to this very day."

"Thankfully on the far side of the Velothi Mountains," Ria remarked. "All right. You'd better bring those to Dragonsreach. Farengar's much better at coming up with interesting theories than I am."

Athis didn't need any more prompting. He started on his way back down the stairs without another word.

Whatever had just happened here, it probably had some sort of great significance. It was one thing for Skyrim to be attacked by scary evil inhuman creatures. It was another thing entirely for them to come in from some point long ago in history. Even in the case of the dragons, that had ended up being a case of Alduin not being very well banished in the first place.

Which, when Ria thought about it, made this the third time that the people of Skyrim would be trying to bring the World-Eater down. Maybe this time it would finally stick.

But still, this was different. No one, at least to Ria's knowledge, had banished these so-called ash creatures into the flow of Time. Not back in the Third Era when they'd been actually alive. They'd somehow just appeared in the present day. Things were just getting stranger and stranger all the time.

If that Dagoth Ur person came back too, Ria was going to be incredibly irked.

Beside her, Erik slumped down against the arch, sitting on the stone base beneath. He laid his head in his hands and just stayed that way for a second, taking a deep breath in, and out, and in again. "Ugh. I don't know how he stood that. I've never… I've never even seen anything that looked so wrong."

Ria sat down next to him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. At least, as gentle as could be when her hand was in a gauntlet and Erik's shoulder was in a pauldron. "I know what you mean. But… honestly, I'm surprised he went and did that at all. Going around in the ash of the volcano. When he first saw that thing, he looked devastated."

"Well, he's a brave Companion like that. You can tell he's brave because he wears pretty much no armor and doesn't use a shield and has tiny daggers." Erik still had his head in his hands. "If he dies and doesn't get into Sovngarde, once it's our time, we should just follow him wherever he goes instead. Out of protest. I'm serious."

"He _is_ about as brave as we ever are, it's true." Ria nodded appreciatively, and let go of Erik and just leaned back on the arch. Part of her wanted to get up and go inside, but honestly, it was a nice afternoon. The sun was shining, the wind was breezing, the city was bustling… it was easy to lose herself in. Beside her, Erik seemed to be doing much the same, just sitting and taking it all in. Maybe still feeling a little put off from earlier, in his case, but there were few better places to be.

Some time passed. She didn't keep track. After a while, she started daydreaming about High Hrothgar. She and Erik had actually gone there, once. That had been a momentous journey. Perhaps they'd have to do it again sometime, but after doing it once, it didn't seem all that scary. Or maybe it did. But she knew she would survive it, at least.

Besides, she had that necklace from Farengar to stave off the cold now. It would probably feel practically normal up there with this thing on.

And then, for the second time that day, a voice snapped her out of her moment.

"Ria! You're up."

It was Njada. She was walking up the staircase. That big sack of hers wasn't in sight. Neither was Athis, actually.

"Uh…" Ria rubbed her eyes and looked at her blankly. "What?"

"You're up," Njada repeated. "Farengar wants to talk to you now. It's very urgent. Erik, you might want to come too."

That was all it took for them to get going. Soon enough, there were three Companions walking up the stairs to Dragonsreach.

Whatever this was, it couldn't possibly be good. Farengar had just been presented with a couple bags of severed ash creature heads, and now he was urgently asking for Ria to come up. In the minute or so that it took to get up there, Ria couldn't think of anything that this could actually mean, but it probably wasn't for bonus pay.

And Erik wasn't talking. Neither was Njada. The unspoken agreement seemed to be to just wait for Farengar to have the first word.

Njada was the one to push open the doors to Dragonsreach. Ria just followed in after. Stepped inside, wiped her boots off, took a look around. It was oddly quiet in here. Jarl Balgruuf wasn't on his throne, and Proventus wasn't anywhere nearby. A few guards and staff members were standing around and doing their daily work, but that was it.

Ria sped up to get in the front of her group, and led the way on up to Farengar's lab. She really, really wanted to get the anticipation over with right now.

Farengar was sitting at his counter like usual, with a strange grayish-reddish lump in a dish in front of him. Athis was standing nearby, leaving both chairs empty. The big bags from earlier were nowhere to be seen.

"Hello," the court wizard said, unsmiling. "Thanks for coming on such short notice. This is big."

Upon closer examination, the lump had a few severed tubes sticking off it. This was definitely a heart. Like a human heart, except bizarrely discolored. No guesses where it'd come from.

Ria leaned back from it and let out a slow breath. A slow, very controlled breath. "What's going on, Farengar?"

"Well, as of now, a whole lot of things are suddenly making sense. I've been investigating as much as I possibly can, ever since the one-hour volcano. Trying to keep track of other magic anomalies, see if anything here is connected. I've refused to concede that these must all be completely random outbursts of magic."

Erik said, "Wait. Is that actually what we're calling it now? The one-hour volcano?"

"It's what I'm calling it," Farengar shrugged. "Maybe it'll catch on. I sort of named the Shadow Unending too. Anyway, things are suddenly making sense now. As of this moment, I think I know what the red draugr are after."

He paused. Everyone waited for him to continue.

"I honestly should've been able to guess this as soon as you came in here with your new sword, Ria. But it's not complicated. The red draugr have been sitting in every crater they can. Sometimes digging into their centers, like they expect to find something underneath. And I've been trying to figure out what new magical treasure they might be after."

Then he pointed to the grayish heart on the counter. "Until I saw your haul from the volcano, and I realized that we're not constrained to new magical treasures. We may be looking for very old ones. As in, ones that were already banished from the world."

Erik asked, "What does Ria's sword have to do with this?"

Farengar grunted in annoyance and ran a hand over his face. "This… this is why you all need to start reading non-Nordic literature. Shor isn't unique to Skyrim. We're the only ones to call him that, but everyone else knows of him too. They just call him Lorkhan."

Nobody reacted. Not even Athis, which was a little surprising. Maybe he'd just forgotten to pay attention to the priests in Morrowind as a child.

The court wizard brushed it off and focused on Ria. "Look. The only reason Shor would give you such a massively powerful artifact is if he truly, desperately needed you to do something. He didn't do anything like this to help us fight Alduin, he didn't even do anything like it to save the Circle from Morokei. Only now is he stepping in. Which, sure, that's excusable, it's not easy for him to do this stuff. But the point is, I'm pretty sure the Heart of Lorkhan is returning to Skyrim."

Again, everyone was silent. But this time, it was most definitely a reaction. It was just that their reaction consisted of absolutely nothing.

Ria, for her part, was just transfixed in thought. She spoke after a few seconds. "… 'To you, my heart belongs. To you, I trust myself.' That's what Shor said to me. I didn't think he meant a literal heart."

In response, Farengar just raised an empty hand towards her, and gave her a silent look.

Njada asked, "So is the Heart of Lorkhan, uh… is it actually a…"

"An actual literal heart?" Farengar nodded. "Yes, from what I've read. Red, veiny, giant-sized, probably belongs inside Lorkhan's ribcage. And it's full of power. If Alduin manages to tap into it, the Shadow Unending as we know it is going to end. And everything else will probably end in the process."

"So, we have to defend the Heart of Lorkhan from the red draugr," Erik said. "Where is it?"

"Good question. I've put a message through—" Farengar gestured to the empty chair by the propylon column— "to Blackreach, where they'll be able to get a message along to the dragons and have them start looking. There have been a lot of shooting stars lately, so, uh... they have some searching to do. But I have a suspicion about where it'll land, and I'm having them check there first. If I'm right, they'll be back later this evening. You should all rest up, by the way."

"I didn't know Shor had an actual ribcage in Mundus," Njada murmured.

Athis asked, "What's the location you're suspecting?"

The court wizard looked pleased to get back on topic. "Northwind Summit. It's a mountain in the Rift, located a very short distance due northwest of a village called Shor's Stone."

Ria stared dully at him for a couple seconds, her jaw slackened. "… You're kidding, right?"

"What, you think they named it that just because they felt like it?"

"Gods, I can't believe I'm having this conversation." All she could do was shake her head. Presumably, there was some kind of actual reason for the name to matter, but she couldn't even bring herself to ask. "What… what was that about resting up, then?"

"You're all going to want to do it," Farengar said. "Because I think you four should be the ones to handle this. Normally, having handed this off to Blackreach, I'd leave their own army to do the rest. But Shor gave Selthrei to you, Ria. Not them. And I've spent enough time around benevolent but terrifying eternal beings to know to respect their judgment."

For some reason, it wasn't until this last reply that it really hit Ria. She'd understood the importance of this issue already, and sort of understood the connection with her sword, but… now it was hitting her. This was it. The final fight was coming.

She took a deep breath in. "… Thanks, Farengar. You've done a lot for us. "

"Actually, that reminds me." The court wizard turned his attention briefly to the others. "You can all head back to Jorrvaskr and start preparing now. I need a moment alone with Ria."

"What? More?" She raised her eyebrows. Normally, moments alone like this weren't a good sign, but on the heels of her thanking Farengar for his help… this was different. "Why is it just me for this one?"

But the other Companions were already heading out. Erik gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he left, which absolutely didn't help matters. Ria was left standing there all by herself.

Farengar stood up from his seat and circled around to follow them out. "With me, Ria," he said, without so much as looking back at her.

While the others all headed left for the front doors, Farengar turned right, towards the the stairs up to the rest of the keep. There was nothing to do but follow.

As they did, Ria asked, "What is this about, exactly?"

"Something I've been working on," Farengar said as he led the way up. Again with the not looking back at her. It made his words a little hard to hear. "Well, something I've been helping work on. I'm not the only one."

The last time Ria had gone up this part of the keep, she'd ended up heading out onto the Great Porch and meeting a dragon. But that wasn't where they went now. When Farengar got to the top of the stairs, he took a left turn, and started off in the direction of the big pair of double doors on the far side of the room. Ria had definitely never been over there.

As she followed along, she asked, "Is it all right if I ask about the Shor's Stone thing?"

"The name of the village is in reference to the mountain. The original purpose of it is lost to history, except that that's his designated place in Skyrim. If he has any control at all over where the Heart will land, it'll have to be there."

"Good enough, I guess," she sighed. At least this meant she'd get to ride a dragon again. If she could do it while not also being frozen half to death, maybe it'd be actually fun.

Farengar opened the doors and led Ria through like normal. On the far side was a tall, spacious room, rather long and narrow, with stairs up one side and a flat corridor on the other. Actually, the stairs were going up from both ends of the room, to a middle landing—this was bizarre and Ria had never been in here. Jorrvaskr had a grand total of one stairway inside. One. Why couldn't people just live like that?

In any case, there were certainly a lot of guards in here. They didn't seem to pay the two of them any mind, but it wasn't really clear what they were all even here for.

Then it occurred to Ria where they were going. "Why are we visiting the Jarl's quarters? He's not in there, is he?"

"No, I believe he's out on business. And Proventus is off being stricken by panic or something because of the severed heads in his hall. I should apologize to him about that later."

The landing led to yet another staircase, this time up to a platform at the very top of the room. This staircase ran along underneath the vault of the ceiling above, and took them to what felt like the very end of the wing. Except that Ria had no idea where in the keep they actually were. All she knew was that they were looking at three pairs of closed doors—one left, one ahead, one right. It felt like she wasn't supposed to be up here.

Farengar, still completely undeterred, walked right ahead and pushed the center pair of doors open. It wasn't even to an entirely separate room, just through a partition that stopped short of the ceiling above. But on the other side was a much more private-looking space. There was a dining table in the middle, with eight seats and a whole lot of ornate silver dishes waiting to be filled. To the left was an open arch to another, even smaller chamber with a double bed in it.

Damn it all, they were already in the Jarl's living space. And there were still guards everywhere just staring at them. Ria was starting to feel actually embarrassed that she was getting led along for all this.

But still, Farengar had something in mind. There was another pair of doors straight ahead, which he ignored, and another pair still on the right. These, he went through. And finally, finally when he entered this room, he stopped and waited for Ria to catch up.

The first thing she saw, right through the open doorway, was a writing desk in the middle of the room. The room was full of natural light from two sides, with beautiful views of Whiterun out the windows. And there were plenty of bookshelves along the left. This was obviously Jarl Balgruuf's private reading space. And Ria was about to ask what she was doing in here, until she saw what Farengar was looking at.

It was right there, on the right side of the room, flanked by a pair of guards standing on watch. Ria laid eyes on it, and her heart went into her throat.

"That's impossible," Ria said.

Farengar just laughed. "No, it isn't. Didn't anyone tell you how the Dragonborn paid for Breezehome?"

There, on the right side of the room, was a suit of heavy armor. It was laid out on a sturdy wooden display stand, with the gauntlets down by the boots on the base. And every piece of the armor was made with the unmistakable plating of solid dragon bone.

It had been shaped into an elegant, articulated collection of overlapping pieces, all reinforced with edges and layers of bright silvery steel, over a mail hauberk of the same metal. The bone portions were thick and rough in texture, but their shape was carefully controlled. Even the pauldrons, which were the most massive and untreated of the bone pieces, fit the curvature of the armor perfectly. And above them, the helmet looked almost like something out of Nordic myth, with an open T-shaped visor and two horns curling around the sides—except that the armor had an additional grated steel visor on a hinge, currently resting on the helmet's brow.

"Eorlund still had your armor size from the suit you're wearing now," Farengar commented. "It took some time for us to figure out how to work the dragon bone, but as far as the metal parts go, he said the Shadow Unending's been doing great things for his forge. He's assured me that the steel on this will hold up even better than ebony."

Ria reached out with a slow, hesitant hand, and traced her gloved fingertips over the bone-and-metal cuirass. "This is beautiful," she said quietly. "I don't know if I can ever repay you for this."

"Don't worry about paying me. This is a gift. Now, I'd been planning on presenting it to you in a week or so, because I haven't finished enchanting it. But it'll do for now, I think. Just try and come back with it in one piece."

That probably meant that this thing was worth enough gold to buy an entire city. And that estimate was generous in the city's favor. If there were a suit of armor in the world with more defensive capacity than this, Ria had never heard of it.

Farengar leaned over and rapped on the suit's left pauldron with his knuckles. "This stuff's about as close to indestructible as armor ever gets. You could drop a boulder on this from fifty feet up, and the boulder would yield first. Bit on the heavy side, maybe, but didn't I give you a necklace for that?"

"Yes, you did," she said absently.

"Good. Right now, the boots are enchanted to keep you standing longer—just some stamina and health stuff, pretty basic—but the rest is still waiting for its turn. But I don't think there's time for me to do any more for it. You should spend some time practicing in this thing. Get used to it as much as you can. Chances are, you'll be putting it to the test very soon."

Meanwhile, the two guards were just standing there and watching silently. Ria couldn't see their faces through their visors, but if she had to guess, they were either deeply amused by this, or just deeply jealous. Or both.

She asked, "Why is this armor in the Jarl's quarters?"

"It's the most heavily-guarded location in Dragonsreach." Farengar gestured to the two guards. They didn't really react. "It took a long time to put this together, and I didn't want any of the pieces getting stolen. I might be on good terms with the Thieves Guild thanks to our mutual Daedric friend, but there are plenty of opportunists out there who'd like to have this for themselves."

Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Farengar had that particular bit of background. He was always so pleasant and considerate and sincere. And he'd managed to make Ria this entire suit of armor, and keep it secret since whenever he'd started on it. And he wasn't even asking for any kind of payment. The only reason this thing had been built was because he was just that generous.

Presumably.

Ria asked, "Why did you do all this? You really didn't have to."

"That's what you think," Farengar said. "I'm just doing my duty as the court wizard of Whiterun. And all of Skyrim needs you."

He paused. Ria just knew there was something else coming after that. Probably starting with the word 'but'.

"But you seem to think—all of you Companions seem to think—that your honor and bravery will be enough to protect you, or at least give you the grand battles you seem to yearn for. And you're absolutely wrong. Take your Circle, for example. I heard what happened there. Farkas, Vilkas and Aela were honorable, brave warriors with enough talent between them to match an army. And they were all killed instantly by a blast of flame from a traitorous dragon.

"I'm not going to let you meet such a senseless fate too. Not when Shor himself has put his faith in you. If you die, it could well mean that Alduin will end up getting his hands on the Heart, and then there's no telling what will happen. I'm the court wizard of Whiterun, and I have some power to help you. Honor and determination alone won't keep you alive in battle, but maybe I can use my own inner virtues on something that will."

One of the guards finally broke their silence. "… The Heart?"

"Heart of Lorkhan," Farengar said offhandedly. "Newest thing to keep Alduin away from."

"Ah."

Ria sighed. She was never going to get a better opportunity than now to say something in response to this. In response to everything the court wizard of Whiterun had done.

"Farengar… I don't know what the Companions would do without you. I really don't. You've been here for us at our lowest, and you've gone far beyond the duties of your station in giving us your aid. If there were ever an example of the kind of goodness that the mages of the world can bring, it'd have your name."

The court wizard smiled softly and gave her a deep, bowing nod. "It's my pleasure, Ria. But thank you. Still, as long as we're talking about security, I can think of one better place for us to keep this armor here."

"Where's that, then?"

His smile promptly turned to a big knowing grin. "On your body. Get out of that steel stuff, you're in for the refashioning of your life."


	52. Aicantar 10

Sundas, 1:22 PM, 73rd of Second Seed, 4E 202

Alftand Prison

This cell was very cold. They'd moved him into it first thing yesterday morning, and it was on the wrong side of the surface ruin doors. All of their real prison cells were. And here he was, sitting in one of them.

He'd been here for over a day. But he'd barely gotten any sleep. He couldn't. This whole time, he'd been sitting here, trying to figure out what in Oblivion he was supposed to do. He was living a nightmare, and he wanted to wake up, but he couldn't. The nightmare was completely real.

But after a while, after a few hours, he couldn't keep track of time anymore, he thought it was a few hours… after some time, his fear started to give way to other thoughts. He was in a prison cell, and he was probably going to be in here for a long time, and there was nothing to do but think.

So here he was, sitting on this cold stone floor in this dimly lit cell, and just… thinking.

Mainly thinking about how he'd gotten here, because he still couldn't believe he'd ended up in… this place. He didn't know how much of this was really his own fault. Maybe a lot. Maybe a little, maybe none. The only thing he knew for sure was that he'd been completely betrayed.

That was what Sarelle had done—she'd betrayed him. Betrayed his trust, his friendship, his… his love, all of it. She'd used him as a tool to see into Blackreach.

And all of his memories of her were different for it. Hadn't she been the one to suggest that he keep working in Blackreach even after the indexes were done? Of course she had. It hadn't had anything to do with his actual future of work. She'd just wanted him to keep soaking up valuable secrets to share.

And hadn't she told him, once, that she could keep a secret? Right before he'd told her about the legionnaires in Blackreach? Oh, he'd just walked into it all.

It didn't make sense for him to be angry at himself about it. That wasn't going to get him out of this cell. But he kind of was anyway. If he'd done something different, anything different… if he'd just been a little more careful in keeping his secrets to himself… but Sarelle had done such a good job of being his perfect companion. He'd never had the slightest reason to doubt her. She'd been just as trustworthy as the people inside Blackreach itself.

Too bad Savos Aren hadn't done that mind-scan spell on her, too. That would've saved everyone a lot of grief.

This cell was actually somehow smaller than the one by the guardhouse. It had the same furnishings inside, but practically no room in between them. The cell was at the end of some big hallway, and Aicantar had no idea whether there were others nearby. But he had a feeling he was on his own in here.

He'd wanted to warm this place up using a flames spell, or something of the sort. But he couldn't. It had taken him a while to realize it, but these metal manacles they'd left on him were actually nullifying his magicka. They'd really thought of everything.

They hadn't let him shower or shave or change his clothes, either. He'd be feeling kind of gross from that, if he weren't busy just feeling cold.

Gods, he was going to be here for a long time. He didn't know if he could get used to this. How could he get used to a living nightmare? He was just a court wizard's nephew and he was in a prison cell for high treason. But at the same time, even after a single day, he was pretty sure he'd experienced all there was to experience in here. This was just his life now. Maybe the sooner he got used to it, the easier things would be from now on.

And that was a horrible, bleak thought. But he couldn't think of anything else. What was he going to do? Escape? Even if he did get out through the barred cell door, even if he somehow evaded all the guards in the ruin and then the ghost guards up above, he'd still be in the middle of the damn Winterhold. Was he supposed to go to Jarl Korir in the city of Winterhold, three days' travel away, and say, hello, I'm an accomplice to a traitor against the High King, I need your help?

He supposed every hold did track its crime separately. That probably wasn't going to be much help to him right now.

In the meantime, or… for the foreseeable future, really, he was just stuck here. And he could blame Sarelle, or blame himself, or blame someone in between for how this had ended up, but it didn't change that he was sitting here in a prison cell. So as awful as it was to do, he was trying to get used to this.

All of the Dwemer machinery in this part of the city was inactive. No machinery meant no running steam pipes, no running steam pipes meant no heat. It was just warm enough in here that Aicantar didn't think he'd get frostbite (he didn't have a runny nose from it, that was something), but his bed didn't even have a blanket. That was probably a factor in his inability to sleep in here, honestly. Mainly, it led to him sitting here and clutching his toes to keep them warm.

They seemed to serve three meals a day here. The guards gave it to him right in his cell, and it was always the same. A wooden cup of water, and a hollowed-out mushroom cap full of bean mush. It tasted like nothing. It wasn't even hot. And, of course, there was no flatware involved. No flatware, no blankets, no movable furniture, it was like they expected him to use everything he could to escape.

From his point of view, the manacles alone probably made sure of that one. He missed spellcasting so much. But here he was. This was his life now. He was just… still working on getting used to that.

At some point, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Two sets of footsteps, walking nearly in unison, coming up the corridor. He lifted his head up and looked.

The result didn't surprise him. Two guards, walking side by side, in their full armor and whatnot, coming towards his cell. They were just… they were coming along. For some reason.

Maybe it was kind of surprising, though, at the same time. Aicantar didn't think anyone would be bothering with him so soon. He struggled to get back up to his feet as the guards came close.

Once they were within speaking range, one of the guards said, "Hands through the bars, please."

Aicantar knew this routine already. He'd had to do it when they'd brought him here to begin with. He walked forwards slowly—his muscles had gotten sore and stiff when he wasn't paying attention, that was managing to annoy him a little—and put his closed fists through one of the gaps between the bars.

The guard stepped forward and secured the chain back on his manacles. It still made him feel terrible every time he had this on. He didn't even want to look at it.

"Step back, please," the guard said.

The Altmer obligingly withdrew his hands from the bars, and waited. The guard proceeded to unlock and slide open the doors, and then both of them came in and took him by the arms. This was how it'd gone last time, too. They didn't give him an inch of freedom as they walked him out.

This was definitely strange. He supposed this could be for his trial, though he'd heard nothing about that so far. He wasn't even sure, at this point, if he was going to get one. They might have been planning to just execute him, which didn't even really bother him at this point. It didn't really matter.

But that didn't stop his curiosity. He asked slowly, "Where… are we going?"

Ugh, his voice didn't feel good. That'd been a lot harsher on his throat than he'd expected. Maybe he was just thirsty. The guards didn't answer him, in any case, which wasn't a surprise at all. He'd asked the same question last time, and gotten the same lack of an answer.

But it quickly became clear that they were backtracking. Going back down the sloped corridors of the ruin, back towards the atrium. Towards the city. So they weren't just moving him to another prison cell. Probably weren't executing him, either.

Eventually, they got to a big pair of double doors, with a short corridor beyond—and then another pair of double doors to a much warmer and brighter space. All of a sudden, he could hear the sounds of Alftand again. The machinery running in the background, the people going about their days wherever they were, it all combined into a constant, quiet humming rush in the background. He honestly never thought he'd hear that again. It put a bit of a smile on his face, despite it all.

He immediately stopped that when his lips gave a painful crack. Very painful. All right, smiling was a bad idea. They'd gotten pretty chapped in that cold cell. He wondered if he could ask for a salve for that.

The guards ushered him on into a side corridor, into a room he'd never been in before. Not the actual guardhouse. A different space entirely. It actually looked recently dug out. The stone here was as smooth as ever, and there were still lamps on the walls, but it was lacking all the metal bordering that the Dwemer stuff usually had. It was clearly of a different make.

Why had they put another room up here? Weren't there plenty already?

There were a couple of doorways off this corridor, made of solid Dwemer metal like usual. The guards pushed one of the pairs of doors open, and guided him through. He took a deep breath in and tried to refocus. This was going to be interesting.

Except it kind of wasn't. On the other side was a small, square room, with nothing in it but a stone table between two stone benches that served as chairs, built right into the masonry of the room. One of the benches was already occupied, by someone Aicantar definitely had never seen before. An Orc male, on the older side, with a bald head and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He was wearing the standard work clothes, but something about him seemed… different. It was hard to describe.

The Orc looked up at him and said, "Hello, Aicantar. Please, have a seat."

That was a little friendlier than he'd expected. The guards brought him over to the opposite bench and sat him down in it, then stepped back and closed the doors. They didn't leave the room. They were just standing there and watching.

Aicantar looked around the room slowly. There was a timepiece fixed to the near wall, he hadn't seen that before. According to that, it was 1:25, presumably in the afternoon. He'd had his second meal of the day an hour or two ago, so that figured.

But he still didn't know what this was. This definitely didn't look like a trial. He asked, "Who are you?"

"My name is Argthaz gro-Lunn. I'm one of the professional advocates of Alftand. I've been assigned to your case to help you navigate your charges competently."

"I… didn't even know we had those," Aicantar mumbled. His voice still didn't feel good. "I'm sorry, do you have any water?"

Argthaz chuckled quietly, then reached under the table and produced a Dwemer metal cup filled with water—because apparently, he just had one of those. He slid it gently over to Aicantar as he replied. "We don't see a lot of use among the happier citizens of the city. Some of us relegate ourselves to resolving disputes between aggrieved parties, but I specialize in more serious matters. Your own case, for example. You've been charged with high treason. Do you understand what that means?"

Honestly, Aicantar wasn't sure whether this was some sort of trick or what. He was mainly just confused. First, he took a sip of the water, as best he could with his wrists bound. Then he pretty much just drained the entire cup. That helped a lot. "Thank you," he nodded, being careful not to smile again. Then, "Do you want to extract some kind of confession from me?"

"No." The Orc's tone sharpened suddenly. "I'm not here to tell you to admit to guilt. I'm here to tell you your options. You've been charged with high treason, which means you're believed to have betrayed the Jarl, specifically by sharing political secrets you learned in Blackreach."

That sounded about right. He'd figured as much from what he'd heard already. He just nodded slowly. Part of him was still struggling to accept that this was even happening, but he tried to ignore that for now. "Is Sarelle…"

"Sarelle's trial was held this morning," Argthaz said. "It was very brief. She declined any sort of defense, and confessed to high treason. She was subsequently brought outside the city and executed. I'm sorry."

Well, that was blunt of him. But strangely, it didn't really make Aicantar react at all. He'd sort of known that was coming. Sarelle was as good as gone for him the moment he'd seen that look on her face. The rest was just a formality. He took a deep, trembling breath in, and let it out very slowly, staring down at his lap as he did. "All right," he mumbled. That was about all he could even say.

"During her trial, Sarelle made the point repeatedly that you were an unwitting accomplice to her crimes. Now, if this is true, and you successfully make that defense in your trial, you may have your sentence reduced. Probably to some number of years in prison."

The Altmer swallowed involuntarily. This part, he'd sort of expected too. Years in prison. Even if that wasn't as bad as execution… he knew his life would never be the same. And he still didn't know whom to blame for that. Nobody, probably. Didn't matter at this point. But he just… he just couldn't believe this.

But Argthaz kept talking. "On the other hand, the court wizard of Blackreach, J'zargo, has already made a personal request that you be given a second chance. We're not in the habit of building our laws on favoritism, but as one of the officials of Blackreach itself, J'zargo is uniquely equipped to give us an insight to the significance of your actions."

 _What?_

Oh, damn that Khajiit. Damn him and bless him to the ends of the world. He'd always been so kind and generous. Of course he wouldn't give up on Aicantar now. That just made so much sense. Gods, he didn't even know what to say. He had to reply somehow.

"… Second chance?"

"That's right," Argthaz nodded. "So I'm here to present you two options. One, you let your case go to trial, where you'll likely end up being convicted. Two, you accept this offer here and now, and you walk free, on several conditions."

Aicantar waited silently for the rest of this. He wasn't sure yet which option was actually better.

"One, you never say a word of this to anyone. Not even about your arrest. It's going to become public knowledge that Sarelle was a traitor, but we've done our utmost to withhold the details of this case. That's why we deliberately brought you both out of sight for the arrest, and why we were forced to place you in solitary confinement. It was too risky to have you talking to anyone. As far as everyone's concerned, you'll have just been friends with someone who turned out to have false colors. If you share any of your experiences here, the whole case will open right back up, and it's in everyone's best interest to avoid that. Including yours.

"Two, for the next six months, starting whenever the Shadow Unending stops messing with our calendar, you stay in the city. Any contact you have with outsiders will be monitored. We're aware that you learned plenty during your time in Blackreach, and if you're planning on running off with everything you learned… well. We can't keep you here forever. Not without some kind of criminal conviction, or at least some official explanation, both of which would, again, reopen the case. But even if you'll be free to travel Skyrim once again, we'd prefer to let your information go out of date first.

"And three, your clearance for the Alftand cathedral doors has been revoked. You had your chance to prove that you could keep a secret, and that didn't work out in the slightest. You might not have anything on your criminal record after this, but we're not going to make the same mistake twice with you. No hard feelings, of course. You'll still be entitled to everything a citizen of Alftand is entitled to have. But your time in the Dragonborn's inner sanctum is over. You're never setting foot in Blackreach again."

The Altmer stared blankly. He'd been expecting something entirely different from that. He didn't even know what, exactly. But this was far, far more lenient than he'd anticipated. They were going to let him just go back to living his life? After all of this?

Argthaz added, "There was a concern among our investigators that Sarelle was making either a false or an incomplete confession, and that you would still be colluding with another agent within Alftand. But that theory hinges on the notion that you're much more actively guilty than anyone has reason to believe. So it was agreed that we would offer to let you go, but with these conditions as a precautionary measure. Now it's up to you to decide what you want."

"Thank you," he said, although the words didn't feel like they were actually coming out of his mouth. "That's a great offer. Are you sure there's no other… no other catch?"

"No other catch, no. All we really need to do is continue preserving the various secrets of Blackreach. Beyond that, it's for your own good. You don't want to be associated with Sarelle's case. That'd kill your reputation in Alftand more thoroughly than a prison sentence ever could."

Aicantar sighed. "… Yeah. Fair point. All right, I'll agree to all of that."

"Good." The Orc smiled slightly, then leaned back and retrieved something from under his side of the table. A piece of paper, filled with a whole lot of text, plus a quill already filled with ink. "You'll need to sign this so we have some legal record of the agreement. Don't worry, it won't be available for common viewing. Feel free to read it over first."

He slid the piece of paper across the table for Aicantar to examine. There were a few paragraphs of text, with a blank area on the bottom. Looked pretty normal for a legal document. It wasn't like his entire life from now on would be decided by his signature on it, or anything. Just another regular document. Obviously.

Aicantar read over the text as carefully as he could, which at the moment, wasn't really all that careful. He was barely focused. But he did his best to read it from top to bottom anyway. Really, it just looked like a fancy legal text version of what Argthaz had just said to him. No talking about the incident, no leaving Alftand for six months, no returning to Blackreach ever.

That last one was a little sad. He'd never gotten to see that tower Zaryth had made for herself. But on the other hand, he had to remind himself, this was being presented to him as an alternative to a prison sentence. Most people who got in trouble didn't get this lucky. And he'd sure as Oblivion learned his lesson after all this.

He reached out silently for the quill with his manacled hands. Argthaz placed it in his grasp. Then he brought his hands back down, laid the nib of the quill on the blank portion of the paper… and signed it.

That was a lot less dramatic than he'd thought it would be.

But in any case, the deed was done. He let out a slow sigh of… some emotion or other, then dropped the quill beside the paper and leaned back. "There. Anything else I should know about?"

Argthaz shrugged and raised his eyebrows. As he replied, he casually picked up the quill and paper, and put them both back under the table. "That was really it. Your belongings in your room are untouched, and the guards will return the belongings you had on your person. Just head on back down there and… go back to living your life. We're done here."

Then he nodded to one of the guards behind Aicantar's back. The guard promptly came over, grabbed hold of Aicantar's manacles, and unlocked them one after the other.

The Altmer promptly withdrew his hands and gave his wrists a firm rubbing over. He didn't think he'd ever have those metal bands off of him again. Although he hadn't noticed the lack of it when they'd first gone on—he'd had much bigger things to pay attention to during his arrest—he could feel his magicka start to replenish now, even in these first few seconds.

The other guard walked over and opened the doors for him. No grabbing and moving him this time. They were going to let him walk out by himself.

He was really free. Sarelle hadn't managed to ruin his life after all.

How about that.

As he pushed himself up from his seat, he hesitated for a moment. "Hey, uh… Argthaz?"

The Orc raised his eyebrows again. "Mm?"

"I can't do it myself now, obviously, but… could you give J'zargo my thanks? My personal thanks. He just gave me my life back. That doesn't happen every day."

"Of course." Argthaz stood up as well, and nodded solemnly. "I'll make a point of it. I'm confident he'll be pleased to know that things worked out for you."

Aicantar stepped out of the room and glanced around the corridor. The two guards still followed him out, though they still weren't touching him now. One of them said, "If you follow us back to the guardhouse, we can retrieve your things."

"Sounds good," Aicantar replied absently. He was trying to think this whole thing through, and it really wasn't working. First he'd been having a normal good life in Alftand, then he'd been arrested for treason, and now he was free again? Just like that? He didn't even know what to think at this point.

Besides maybe that Sarelle had been very, very bad, and J'zargo was very, very good. But that might have been simplifying it a little too much. He still couldn't tell.

Still, he had his magicka back. So on the way out, he briefly flashed a healing spell, and fixed up his injured lip. The guards didn't even ask what he was doing it for. They probably didn't care that much.

In the guardhouse, there was a whole room full of metal lockers for people's belongings. Aicantar's were in one of those. His personal key, his fifty septims, all of the things he'd had on him at the time of the arrest. He didn't need his clothes back, because they'd never changed him. Which was actually kind of funny, when he thought about it. He always thought prisoners had to wear miserable roughspun rags or something. Maybe that was only for if they got actually convicted. Or maybe in his case, again, they just hadn't really cared.

Aicantar didn't know what to say to any of the guards here, so he just took his things and left without a word. No escort this time. He was on his own.

He was really, really, on his own.

At this time of day, the atrium had plenty of people in it. Aicantar walked out onto the ramp and found himself looking at a big whole crowd of pedestrians all up and down the room. Just like normal. How was everything still just like normal?

No one else in this room had any idea what had happened to him today. That was probably for the best. It would have to be, seeing as he couldn't talk about it anyway.

There was nothing to do but walk the whole way down, from top to bottom. He kept his eyes on the floor in front of him, and put one foot in front of the other, and… just kept going. This was bizarre. Twenty minutes ago, he'd been resigned to the rest of his whole life being forfeit. Now he was walking back down to his room like nothing had happened at all.

He couldn't think about this right now. He had to get somewhere that wasn't full of people.

By the time the Altmer made it to the bottom of the ramp, he was actually feeling a little light-headed. He didn't know why, he wasn't really hungry or anything. But he had to stop and rest against a wall for a second before carrying on. Fortunately, he could at least remember the way back to his room from here, and there weren't as many people in this part of the city, but… oh gods, he felt sick. This wasn't good at all.

Like usual, the rooms were basically empty at this time of day. Aicantar appreciated that. He couldn't describe it, he just knew he desperately needed to get away from everyone right now. Everyone.

When he got to his own room, he found it empty too. His personal key still worked in the chest, and sure enough, his belongings were still inside. He fumbled through them until he got the things he needed, then closed up and carried his things out, and… at some point he lost track of what exactly he was doing, but he ended up in the shower room with his clothes in a pile behind him. Because he just really needed to shower right now.

This felt a little familiar. Aicantar had done this once before. Just like this. He'd been feeling like a mess, he'd come in here, he'd…

The sickness hit him harder than anything ever had. He groaned and fell against the wall, then onto his knees, and he just put his head in his hands and stayed there. Gods, he felt so filthy right now, he was cold and he was filthy and he felt so awful and he couldn't get it to end. He couldn't do it.

This was where he'd ended up. Sarelle was dead. Everything she'd done with him had been just to use him. Maybe it'd even worked. Maybe she'd gotten what she wanted. She'd gotten what she'd wanted out of him, and now he was just discarded, and the only reason he wasn't freezing in a prison cell right now was because someone had stepped in and done something generous for him.

His stomach was all tied up in a knot. He wanted to cry, and it wasn't happening. Well, it was sort of happening. His vision was blurry, he could hardly breathe, he just… there was no escaping this. This was where he'd ended up. Sarelle hadn't ruined his life, but she'd definitely… she'd definitely ruined _something_.

Eventually, he managed to pull himself up enough to turn on the water, and got himself to sort of kneel underneath it. The hot water ran over him like it always did, rinsed him off like it always did. If there was some kind of symbolic value to cleansing himself right now, he was missing it.

There was a sort of routine he was supposed to go through, with cleaning off and getting groomed and all that sort of thing. He sort of did it, after a while. He could barely focus. He just knew that at some point, he turned the water back off, dried himself with his towel, and got into his new clothes. It didn't even make any difference. His skin was cleaner, his hair was… wetter, and that was it.

As an afterthought, he went back with his soap and brush and razor to go shave, in the side room off the showers, where the basins were. Just the usual routine, like always. Just like it was all normal.

Of course, by this point he'd gotten a couple days' worth of stubble on his face, but it just… it wasn't even that he wanted to get rid of it, he just knew it was part of his daily habit and he wasn't done going through the motions. But his hands weren't steady like they were supposed to be. He nicked himself more than a few times, trying to make it work. Fortunately, he still had healing spells handy. But this was really bothering him. He was feeling so sick, he really was. What was he even supposed to do with himself? Just keep doing this self-maintenance routine every day forever? What did he even have left, now?

He was all alone here in Alftand now. And not just in this room, right this second. He'd wanted to get away from everyone, in coming back here. But he just hadn't really needed anything more than Sarelle. She'd been his world, here in this city. Now she was the worst thing it ever could've given him.

Aicantar rinsed his face off in the basin and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked… whatever he looked like, he didn't look good. It wasn't easy to focus on himself right then.

Maybe he'd been starting to get close to J'zargo, too. But that was pretty well sunk, now. So was any hope of getting to see more of the Black Machine.

Blaz would've been so disappointed in him right now. She'd saved his life in Markarth, for this.

That thought was just too much. He staggered away from the basin, dropped his razor on the floor, and just sat down where he was. His breathing turned to sobbing in an instant. Tears were everywhere, his eyes were hurting so horribly, it was unbearable. And it just wouldn't stop.

He'd had such high hopes for himself, coming here. Now it'd ended up like this.

He didn't know how much time went by. It wasn't like he had a timepiece on him to check. But eventually, he pulled himself back up, wiped his face off again, and collected his things to take back to his room.

If this was what his daily life was going to be like from now on, he wasn't sure he could keep living it.

But this time, when he returned to his room, it wasn't empty. There was another occupant, perched on the near corner of Jenze's bed. He recognized the person in an instant. It didn't make any sense, but he did recognize the person.

He paused right where he was, halfway through the doors. "Rem? What are you doing here?"

The Dunmer shrugged and swung her legs back and forth a little. She was wearing her usual work clothing, but for once, she obviously wasn't working. "I, uh… I heard about Sarelle," she said, quietly, looking down at the floor. "I know you were friends with her, so I wanted to, uh…"

Now it made a little more sense. Aicantar closed the doors behind him. He didn't want to, but he was starting to tear up again right now. He wiped at his eyes with one hand. Tried not to sniff too loudly.

"I'm really sorry," Rem added after a moment. "She really… she really had us all fooled, huh?"

Aicantar turned in her direction, and just tried to think for a second. But he didn't even know what he was thinking. He ended up just sitting down on the corner of his own bed, directly across from Rem. A little more time passed before he could think of what to say to that. "You ever, uh…" He stopped and cleared his throat. "You ever find someone you think is perfect for you in every way, and then it turns out they were lying to you about everything the whole time?"

"No, but I think that happened to that ghost friend of mine," the Dunmer replied thoughtfully. "Pretty soon, the whole city's going to know about this. It's awful. Everyone knew Sarelle. She got me this job position, even."

"I…" Aicantar was still tearing up more. He kept having to stop and try to control that. He wanted to say something about the kind of day he'd been having, where he'd woken up in a prison cell and ended up here, but… even if he'd been legally allowed to, he doubted he could put it into words right then anyway. "I… don't know how someone can even do that. Lie to everybody, day in, day out. I guess she, uh… she sort of… did that to us all, really. I'd say I'm gonna miss her, but…"

Rem just shrugged. "You can say that if you want. I kind of miss her already, and I heard about it all of fifteen minutes ago. It might've been a lie, but you can still miss feeling like it's true."

"You seem pretty, uh… you know… well-composed. For fifteen minutes."

She shrugged again. "Eh. I'll find some service duct to go hide in if I need to let out any feelings later. I think after enough time spent losing people, I just… well, life is going to go on, right? I'm going to keep being a mechanic, and you're going to keep being a mage. It's sad not having Sarelle, but the world can't end every time you lose someone. Kind of a waste."

"I really did like her," Aicantar said. The words just sort of came out on their own. "I don't even know what I'm going to do now. I was working in Blackreach, but that's done, and I'd been planning to go to Sarelle for whatever's next, but…"

"A lot of people relied on her. The whole city's gonna know about this by the end of today. Going by what happened with the Khajiit thief, there'll be some big new security measure to stop it happening again, and people will be tense about it for a while. But then someone will fill in Sarelle's job position, and the Jarl will make sure the new person's not all corrupt. And then life will slowly go back to normal, at least until the next big thing that rocks the boat around here. That's life." She didn't even sound sad about it. It was all so matter-of-fact. Rem's way of thinking was sort of a mystery for him right now, but it was almost sort of enviable.

Aicantar's line of thought paused midway through. "… Aren't we calling him the High King now?"

"Ahh!" Rem snapped her fingers. "Dammit. Right."

When it was all in perspective like this, it was true, it didn't seem like losing Sarelle was all that big. But Aicantar couldn't just pretend this was all in the past for him. He was going to have a lot to go through.

After a few seconds, Rem went on to say, "I don't really know what was going on between you two. But I hope you don't feel like you're all alone now. From what I've seen, that's just about the worst thing that a person can feel."

"Well, that'd be pretty apt right now," Aicantar mumbled. And that was the truth, like it or not. His eyes were dry and sort of stinging, and he still felt that sick feeling in him, and everything was telling him this wasn't over. But there wasn't much he could do but let Rem talk.

But the Dunmer girl didn't say anything. She sat and looked at him for another moment longer, then hopped off Jenze's bed, walked across the room, and got back up at Aicantar's side. The next thing he knew, there was a pair of slender little warm arms holding him around the middle.

Immediately, he was reminded of all the times Sarelle had done this exact thing. But Sarelle wasn't here. Instead, this very young skinny little mechanic was. He had no idea what his feelings were doing right now. But he definitely didn't fight it. This was the first thing all day to feel like it wasn't hurting him somehow.

Something in here smelled like it was burning. Aicantar took a second to realize that that was just him having a Dunmer nearby. Even with them both sitting down, he was something like a head taller than this person. Her hair looked even messier up close.

Eventually, Aicantar put an arm around her too. She was really little. If Aicantar hadn't been an only child, and he'd had a younger sister, and his sister was a Dunmer for some reason, and no one had ever paid for his Dunmer sister to have a proper haircut, he figured it would feel kind of like this right now.

Maybe his thoughts were still in need of catching up. Mostly, he just felt strange.

Hadn't he been in a prison cell this morning? Now he was safe and warm in his room, getting hugged by someone. No wonder he felt strange. His entire world was strange too.

At some point in time, Rem spoke up. She didn't move or anything, she just spoke suddenly. "You're not, you know."

Aicantar blinked. He'd been thinking about something else. "Huh?"

"You're not alone." She still wasn't letting go. It made it impossible to see her face right now. She kept talking. "Things are bad right now, but they'll be all right. So will you."

The Altmer let out a long, slow sigh, and pulled her a little closer. This was a bewildering time for him. He couldn't even remember what had gotten him so upset to begin with. It had all blurred together into some terrible experience he couldn't begin to understand.

Neither of them said anything more. Some more time passed.

Eventually, they let go and leaned back to look at each other. Aicantar was met with a surprising sight. Rem's cheeks were stained wet with tears.

"Oh, no," he said, without even thinking. "Rem…"

She'd been shedding those for Divines knew how long, totally silently, without even changing her pattern of breath. Now she was just looking up at him with big sorrowful eyes.

"I don't like this either," she said shakily, before sniffing and wiping at her face a bit. "Egh. I'm sorry, I don't… I usually don't hug anyone. I didn't expect that. I'm… yeah, I'll be, uh… yeah. I'm fine."

"I guess we all get to have feelings today, huh?" Aicantar smiled just a little bit to her, reassuringly. She did seem to be regaining her composure quickly, at least. "I, uh… I'll be honest, I have no idea what to do now."

"Probably go keep being a mage, right? … Maybe take the day off first? I'm taking the damn day off." The Dunmer leaned forwards and ran her fingers through her hair, front to back. No wonder it was so messy, if she was doing that all the time.

Because, of course, hairstyle was just what mattered in the end. Obviously.

Aicantar took a slow, deep breath in. "You know… I used to be a sort of assistant to my uncle the court wizard, in Markarth. That was what I was doing with my life."

Rem shrugged casually. "Eh. Anything's possible. I used to be a petty thief who was sometimes known for jumping out of burning windows with a live pheasant in her teeth."

"Wait, what?"

"That's how it was the last time I heard it."

Aicantar exhaled sharply in amusement. He couldn't even help it. "I wish I had people telling stories like that about me. I'm not really known for anything at all."

The Dunmer pushed herself back off the bed, and stepped slowly out into the middle of the room, looking at the pipes running above. "Well, you're a competent mage, with a background in study of Dwemer things, and… you're in a Dwemer city. And you don't even have to worry about providing for yourself. Follow your dreams, right?"

"I don't think it's that simple," Aicantar started to say, only to be cut off abruptly.

"Yeah, it is. You know how much we need people with your talents?" She even turned back and stared at him, for added emphasis. "Just as well you're done in Blackreach. Alftand needs—all right, look. Tomorrow, I'll come around, and take you to talk to the other mechanics. I'm not the only one to have this job, there's a good few others. They'd love to hear what you have to say. How about that?"

Everything in Aicantar's day so far had been crazy. Stepping back and looking at this—as much as he could step back, right now—his life had been thrown into incredible risk for a couple days, and then it'd been brought right back to normal. And it'd turned out that the person he'd cared about most had been actually a spy, but… somehow, he was here anyway.

And now this. What was he supposed to say to this? He could still barely think.

He was being presented with a decision. And it was a whole lot bigger than just meeting some mechanics in the city. Whatever he said now was going to influence all his days to come, just like every other twist and turn his life had taken since Markarth. There'd be other opportunities down the road all the same, but if Aicantar had learned anything, any one thing out of his whole journey, it was that he couldn't let his life go to waste. Every day was precious now.

There were so many things he wanted to say to Rem right then. That he wanted to help in Alftand, in any way he could. That he didn't know what he could do for anyone here, despite his own eagerness. That he wasn't sure he could ever make it out from the shadow of Sarelle's memory. That he wished he could forget this whole ordeal, and just start all over again. All of these were entirely true.

But in the end, he only ended up saying one thing. For his life to take its newest turn, this was all he needed.

"All right, sure. Tomorrow it is."


	53. Gelebor 11

Loredas, 4:33 PM, 72nd of Second Seed, 4E 202

Riverwood

Gelebor couldn't have been happier to see this place once again.

It had been twenty-four days since he and Teldryn had visited here last, and thirty-one days since they had parted ways here with Vidrald. And as comfortable as his rapport with the Dunmer had become, he had come to deeply miss Vidrald's company also. If they were to wait any longer, they would soon have spent as much time apart as together.

But now, as he rode into Riverwood at Teldryn's side, he knew they were about to be reunited. And it couldn't possibly have been under more satisfying circumstances. After all the tasks they had undergone, after all their arduous journeys, the turns of fate had quite truly smiled upon them. Gelebor was riding in with the fourth Aetherium shard in tow.

This was the one that they should have found in Arkngthamz, but for Alduin's interference. And for a time, the shard's fate had been left beyond Gelebor's control, in the hands of the Jarl of Dawnstar, of all people. But there were others working to save Mundus also, far beyond the reach of Gelebor and his companions—and just as they had delivered the shard from Raldbthar, they delivered this one as well.

In this case, it had involved some frighteningly opaque political machinations that Gelebor didn't dare to try to unravel. All he knew was that it had resulted in one Jarl Noster becoming the High King of Skyrim, and that in turn had resulted in Noster personally delivering the Aetherium shard to Gelebor later that same day.

For his part, the snow elf couldn't have been happier. After that ill-fated excursion to Dawnstar, his hope in his mission for Auri-El had faltered badly. Now, his journey resumed with a renewed purpose, and it seemed destined to finally succeed. With the help of all the other heroes in this world, nothing was insurmountable.

He'd even finally come up with a name for his horse. That had been excellent as well.

As an aside: Her name was Sunset. A plain name, in a sense—but after spending so long riding her, Gelebor was made to think of the sorts of beauty that all races could enjoy, from all eras. The sight of a sunset was a joy that everyone knew.

Except for the Dwemer. They'd lived underground. And they hadn't deserved the beauty of sunsets either way.

Obviously, Gelebor was satisfied with his choice of name.

This evening was a cold, gloomy one, with dark clouds all through the sky above, drizzling intermittently. He had been expecting the rest of the rain to descend upon them at any moment, but it hadn't happened. With any luck, they'd make it indoors essentially unscathed.

As they passed in between the first of Riverwood's buildings, Teldryn said, "I missed this little village. Truly, I did."

Gelebor nodded thoughtfully. "It seems far from the worst place to live, although, ah… I doubt either of us intend to start looking for someplace to settle down."

The Dunmer snorted. "Not a chance. I have plenty of years of adventure ahead of me yet."

Perhaps that was true of them both. Gelebor intended to serve Auri-El wherever he was needed, but his companions had never been in this endeavor for the same reason as him. But it raised a question that, in hindsight, should likely have been rather obvious.

"What _are_ you planning on doing, Teldryn? Once the Shadow Unending has been dealt with, that is. I'm realizing now that I've never asked."

"Well, I can't predict the future quite that accurately, _but_ …" Teldryn smirked. His penchant for the theatrical continued to serve him well. "I suppose it depends on whether Vidrald still wants me around. He's been a pleasure to work with so far. Knowing him, he'll have some task or other to pursue even after the Shadow Unending is done, so perhaps we'll stay together for a while longer yet. Though, uh… of course, all of this presumes that we're all going to survive our mission."

"One can hope, at least," Gelebor said mildly. "All in all, I'd say fate has been lenient so far in giving ill turns to our journey."

Naturally, at that exact moment, the rain resumed.

And this time, the rainfall was quickly growing. After the first five seconds or so, Gelebor could tell already that it wasn't going to stop. It was a pity, too. Even with their destination well in sight, this sufficed to dash his hopes of an entirely unscathed travel. So close, and yet so far.

Teldryn glanced up at the gray sky above, then said, "So. The inn."

"Well, the inn is quite welcome," the snow elf replied. "Though I think any structure will suffice if it has a roof and… ah, and at least two walls."

He was happy to ignore the look that Teldryn was giving him at this moment. Sunset still needed guiding down the road.

As with the Jarl's hall in Dawnstar, the Sleeping Giant Inn had a few stalls outside for travelers' horses. By the time Gelebor and Teldryn arrived at the building, however, the rain had already progressed to a constant shower. They dismounted and put the stalls to use as quickly as they could. No guards were around to help this time, but in Riverwood, that scarcely seemed to matter.

By the time that was dealt with, and they were free to head for the inn's front door, the rain was at the point of a torrential downpour. This—or the aftermath of this, if it didn't last too long—would be an ordeal to travel through later. But right now, Gelebor didn't want to put his cloak to the test any longer. He wanted nothing more to get inside. And so he and Teldryn went for the door without even a word.

The inn's interior was exactly as the snow elf had remembered it. The moment he walked in, he was met with a rush of warm, dry air. Courtesy, of course, of the hearth burning away in the center of the room. Even after that brief time in the rain, this was a welcome respite. The few guests sitting at the various tables seemed content to remain right where they were.

And there was Vidrald. Sitting directly across from the hearth, wearing his Dawnguard armor, facing the rest of the room. He had a book laid open on his lap, and was reading it in the firelight. But when the door opened, he looked up—and immediately broke into a joyful smile.

"Vidrald!" Teldryn exclaimed, then hurried around the hearth to give a more proper greeting. As he did, the Nord put his book aside and stood up—and then all of a sudden, they were right against one another, embracing and laughing, without a care in the world for anything else. It was as though they had been separate for entire years, for how visible their joy shone.

Gelebor quietly closed the door behind himself. He could still hear the rain on the rooftop above. It was a pleasant sound, he thought—few sounds better evoked a feeling of shelter, and one of those better ones was right here in the form of the hearth.

There couldn't have been a more fitting backdrop to this reunion. Out there, the world was an unforgiving place. But in here, they were together. These were the people who had shown Gelebor the world.

He decided to circle around the hearth at an easy, walking pace. That gave his companions time to have their fill of squeezing each other breathless. He looked between the two of them, and then asked Vidrald, "Do you have one for me as well?"

Vidrald answered by stepping forward and quite simply grabbing the snow elf in his arms. It was an embrace most eagerly returned. The metal and leather of their armor left only the sheer pressure of one another's contact to be felt, but that mattered not. Their group was divided no longer. Gelebor couldn't help but laugh a little himself.

When Gelebor finally let go, he became rather aware that the other guests in the room were all staring at him. He politely ignored them. "It is a pleasure beyond reckoning to see you again, Vidrald. The expanses of Skyrim simply aren't the same without you."

The Nord chuckled and looked over at Teldryn. "So, you've been teaching him your trade of flattery, then?"

"I am an elf of many trades, and you would do well to remember that," Teldryn replied primly, then held his expression for a long few seconds. "… Maybe."

Before his companions could get further entangled with one another, Gelebor decided to intervene. "Normally, I might suggest we go outside to talk," he said, "but considering the weather, perhaps that would be, ah…"

"I have a perfectly good table here," Vidrald said, glancing behind himself at it. He promptly picked up his book from where he'd left it on the seat, so as to make room.

Teldryn asked, "Wait, what is that thing?"

"It's a book." Vidrald did a fair job of ignoring the Dunmer's resultant facial expression. "I borrowed a few from Lucan, over in the Riverwood Trader. Simply to pass the time while I was waiting for you. This one is a supposedly complete biography of Queen Barenziah. It's a terribly sordid story, in all honesty."

"Well, now you have our company to occupy your attention once more." Gelebor unslung his pack and then sat down at one end of the table. "You are now free to rejoice."

Teldryn did much the same, but where the book had been a moment ago. "This is what you get for leaving Gelebor with me, by the way," he grinned.

Vidrald was not perturbed. "I'll live with it somehow, I'm sure. Hold on a moment. I'll go get some drinks for us, and then we can begin telling one another our stories."

With that, he stowed his book away in his own pack on the floor, then headed off towards the counter at the far end of the room, where the innkeeper was. Teldryn and Gelebor were left sitting across from one another in silence.

There wasn't even very much to say. Honestly, Gelebor was more interested in simply listening to the sounds of the inn around him. He was sure the time of day had yet to progress beyond mid-afternoon, but everything in here was so warm and tranquil that he could have been lulled to sleep anyway.

Still, Vidrald returned quickly enough, with three metal tankards clutched together between his hands. He set them all down on the middle of the table, then sat down between Gelebor and Teldryn. "Here we are," he grinned. "So. Shall I go first?"

"Indulge us," Teldryn said, before picking up one tankard and taking a sip. "Mmm. Ale? I expected mead."

The Nord shrugged. "The day is still young. I'd rather you two not fall off your seats already."

Gelebor cleared his throat. "That story, then?"

"Yes. Here we go." Before he began, Vidrald claimed a tankard for himself. But he didn't bother to drink from it at all, because he was already busy with continuing to talk.

"After you left for Whiterun, Sorine and I took a brief journey of our own, to fetch some armor for you. I was surprised to find how close by her extra supplies were. It seems the Dawnguard are in the habit of storing supplies all across Skyrim, specifically for cases like this. But that took a few days, and we returned only long enough to drop off the gear here in Riverwood."

"Thank you for that," Gelebor said.

"You're entirely welcome. In any case, we were still curious about the incident with the Mythic Dawn agent. So we went investigating that for a little while. Ended up fighting some of those red draugr, which was fun. But mainly, all we learned was that the flow of Time is on the list of things being attacked by the Shadow Unending. And seeing as we're still on the 9th of Second Seed, that's hardly a surprise. Sorine eventually left for Fort Dawnguard once again, which left me on my own.

"Then I returned to Riverwood, and found that message from Kamian regarding the fourth Aetherium shard. Since Lucan said you had received that message as well—as well as the armor, thankfully—I had little to do but wait. Sorine has off been pursuing her own devices, and I've been staying here and keeping my guard up. It is a relief to see you both, by the way.

"Oh, and in the midst of all this, not long ago at all, I received a surprise visit from none other than our ghost friend, Katria." At this point, Vidrald leaned over and started fishing something out of his own pack. "She had some advice for us, for when we've finished collecting the shards. There's a fifth location we'll need to take them to, southeast of Ivarstead. It's on a map in here, now."

While the tale unfolded, Gelebor was taking slow, careful sips of his ale. It had been some time since he had imbibed any drink at all, and he hadn't been yearning to repeat the experience, but he wasn't about to refuse something he had been offered. It was likely meant to go well with the hearth's fire and the rain above. Perhaps it did. It still rather bit into his tongue.

In any case, it was pleasant news to hear that Katria had come by once again. Gelebor still had her bow, Zephyr, slung on his back.

"What a sweetie," Teldryn murmured.

Vidrald extracted a large, rolled-up piece of paper from his pack, and then laid it on the table just beyond his tankard. "Yes. Well-put."

He unrolled the map with one hand. It was obviously a purpose-built item, with wooden dowels on either end to let it remain open, in a fashion not altogether unlike a scroll. Unsurprisingly, the map itself was excellent in quality. Perhaps somewhat more surprisingly, though, it was not a complete map of Skyrim. It was only a map of the Rift, and the immediately surrounding areas. Ivarstead was in the upper-left corner, and there was a sizable X in red ink just to its lower-right. Even in the dim, shadowy light from the hearth behind them, all of this was plainly visible. It wasn't a bad map at all.

Teldryn's map was still better. The one that had been torn in half and used as proof of identity. But that was only Gelebor's opinion.

"This is it," Vidrald said, tapping on the X with an index finger. "We have to bring the shards here. And then we can finally end this."

Gelebor said, "It's fortunate, then, that we now have all four shards."

A smile immediately spread across Vidrald's face. He sat back somewhat and took a deep swig of his own ale, as though to make up for lost time. "All right. I've told you my story. Now it's time for you to tell me yours."

"You do it, Gelebor," Teldryn said immediately. "You're much better at doing the talking."

The snow elf raised his eyebrows in amusement. "So I've been told! All right, then… where to begin?"

He began in Whiterun, where he and Teldryn had first traveled, and where they had received the news that the Shadow Unending was the doing of Alduin. The purpose of that journey, of course, had been to relay the message of the missing Aetherium shard from Arkngthamz—and Vidrald had already seen Kamian's reply. At this point, Gelebor mentioned their new horses, Sera and Sunset. The ones that were in the stalls outside at this very moment.

Next in his retelling was the encounter in Dawnstar. The only fruit borne by their conversation with Jarl Skald had been the news of the upcoming Moot. There was a man who would rather see Skyrim burn to ash than let it be saved by the wrong people. How he had become Jarl of Dawnstar was anyone's guess.

And then, finally, was the Moot itself. For this part, it was just as well that Gelebor was doing the talking now. Teldryn had had to wait outside—in fact, everyone had. Gelebor had been the only person in that room not to have a hold of Skyrim to his name. But it ended with the crown going to the completely unexpected candidate of Jarl Noster of Blackreach. Or, at least, unexpected from Gelebor's perspective—the five jarls involved seemed to have planned that one in advance.

Still, nothing had made him more guiltily satisfied than watching Jarl Skald react to being ordered to surrender the Aetherium shard. It had been such a beautiful reversal of what had happened in Dawnstar. Gelebor ended his story with a smile on his face.

"I was wondering if Noster's coronation was tied to this somehow," Vidrald murmured. "We received a rider bearing that news just this morning. They must have left Whiterun shortly before you."

Despite that Gelebor had done his best to maintain a discreet speaking volume, he was once again aware that his companions weren't the only ones paying attention to him. He decided not to address that unless someone approached him. At this point in their mission, secrecy wasn't quite a top concern. All four Aetherium shards were in this one same room.

Which led him to another thought: "I wonder if Alduin can see us right now. He seems to be aware of things beyond what his draugr can see, if he deliberately moved the Aetherium shard to the hold of someone who wouldn't share it."

"Well, if an army of his undead suddenly breaks down the door, we won't have to be surprised," Teldryn answered idly, before grinning. "I doubt that will be much of a concern. Alduin could have attacked us at any point on the road—not simply from Whiterun to Riverwood, but at any time after our escape from Arkngthamz. Either he has some mysterious greater plan for us, or he's simply lost track."

"And if he were to attack Riverwood, he wouldn't need to wait for you two to have arrived," Vidrald added.

At that moment, another one of the guests intervened. A woman, perhaps Imperial, with tight and pursed but delicate features, and black hair tied neatly back. She was wearing very new-looking leather armor from the neck down. She stood up from her table by the counter, and walked over to the group carefully. "Wait, hold on," she said. "Did you just say Riverwood might be under attack?"

Gelebor gave her a careful look over. She was no one he recognized, but somehow, she looked somewhat familiar anyway. She also looked a slight bit threatening, with a steel mace hanging from her belt and glinting in the firelight. Still, the look on her face was less one of aggression and more one of concern.

"We're saying it's _not_ under attack, Camilla," Vidrald replied, before the snow elf could have the chance to. "Oh, uh… Gelebor, Teldryn, meet Camilla Valerius. The sister of Lucan Valerius, owner of the Riverwood Trader."

That would explain the familiarity. She had something of her brother's features. Still, it was interesting that they hadn't met before now, despite Gelebor's multiple visits to Riverwood. Perhaps she didn't spend a great deal of time here in the village.

"Nice armor," Teldryn said.

Camilla glanced down at herself sheepishly. "Oh, well, um… This is new, actually. You can probably tell. I do a lot of traveling to help procure things for the shop. But with the Shadow Unending going on… well, the roads aren't as safe now."

"Not that they ever are in Skyrim," Vidrald commented dryly. "No, that's a good idea. But you don't need to worry about Riverwood. Uh… Would you care to join us?"

"Oh, no, that's all right. I don't want to get in the way of your little meeting." The Imperial smiled good-naturedly, biting on her lower lip somewhat. "We can talk later, I'm sure."

Vidrald returned the smile. "Whatever you say, Camilla. Just remember to stay safe."

Camilla promptly switched to a melodramatic look of disgust. "Ugh, now you're sounding like my brother." But she obviously didn't mean it with any genuine reproach. She turned away to head back to her seat, parting with a friendly wave over her shoulder.

The three companions were left sitting at the table as before. A few seconds passed in silence as Camilla sat back down across the room. It wasn't clear whether they were supposed to continue to pay attention to her.

"So," Teldryn said.

Gelebor took a long breath in. "Well… she seems nice, doesn't she?"

"I like her," Vidrald grinned. "She has a good spirit about her. She, ah… she's been in and out of Riverwood these past few weeks. Business, and such."

The snow elf nodded slowly. "Perhaps we can find time to speak more with her later. I'm always happy to find new friends, having had the chance to discover anew their value. Which, ah… Which reminds me. I'd been meaning to ask this. Vidrald, what do you plan to do once we've finished our mission?"

"Assuming we survive, of course," the Nord said.

"Yes. Assuming that."

"Well… I'll admit that I've spent a fair deal of time pondering that, during my time of waiting here in Riverwood. I've enjoyed it here, but I don't think I'm quite ready to settle down. There will always be some call to adventure in the world. For all I know, it may take me beyond my homeland entirely. But working with the both of you has made me… well, made me feel like I'm truly alive."

"That's quite a statement," Teldryn said softly. "… But one that I couldn't agree with more. This has been a tremendous deal of fun. And I must say, while my time as a mercenary has given me quite the variety of experiences… it does feel good to be a hero, doesn't it? Making a difference for the better in the world? The gold could be a little more, but it's all for a good cause."

"Yes, continuing to have a world to enjoy your gold in seems like a good cause to me," Vidrald replied, before taking a sip of his ale. He certainly seemed comfortable enough.

As usual, the Dunmer was not deterred by the commentary. "In many respects, what I've been doing with you is very much like my typical work. A great deal of traveling, punctuated by brief moments of breathtaking adventure and mortal danger. But besides that I simply enjoy you as an employer—" He glanced briefly at Gelebor. "And you as a colleague—I've also enjoyed quite the sense of purpose. It's rare that I find myself personally caring about the missions I'm assigned to. But I can't think of a better exception than having a hand in saving all of Mundus from Alduin's wrath."

"All we have to do is actually save it," Gelebor said.

"Ever the optimists, we are," Vidrald smirked.

Another stretch of time went by with nothing spoken. The three of them simply sipped at their drinks and took in their surroundings. Up above, the rain was pounding hard on the roof, but in here, it was perfectly dry. It was very fortunate, Gelebor thought, that the first time they had seen such weather was when they were in a safe shelter. A storm like this could have befallen them just as easily on the road—not simply on the way from Whiterun to Riverwood, but anytime since Gelebor's beginning in Darkfall Cave.

What a time that had been. Receiving the vision from Auri-El, stepping out into the barren ash of the Reach, and stumbling upon his future companions' footsteps. He had understood so little of Skyrim then. The world in which he had lived had been simply… different.

"We've come a long way," the snow elf said, quietly. "Haven't we?"

Vidrald replied, "I imagine we'll come a long way yet before this is over. But it will be an honor to face the end of this task at your side, in victory or defeat."

"Let's stay with victory," Teldryn said mildly.

The Nord took the remark in stride. Obviously, this sort of rapport went both ways. "All the same, we must approach this one step at a time. There is little sense in trying to depart today. With this storm, we would only give ourselves more delay to recover from, to say nothing of our safety. So I suppose now we have time enough to rest. I'm sure you would appreciate that. Your horses, also."

Gelebor opened his mouth to speak, and was promptly interrupted by a distant rumble of thunder. He sighed. "Perhaps we shouldn't talk about the weather. It seems to get worse every time we do."

"It could be another magical anomaly caused by the Shadow Unending and Alduin is using it as a world-spanning device of destruction," Teldryn remarked, all in one single breath. Then he waited for a couple of seconds, then smiled. "There. See? We're fine."

Vidrald held up a fist, and started opening fingers one by one. "And the draugr will break down the door in one, two, three, four… ffffour…" He glanced over his shoulder at the door. Nothing was happening. "Uh…"

"Four and a half," Teldryn said, in the same counting monotone.

"Yes, I believe we're safe for now," Vidrald grinned, turning back to his seat and promptly downing his drink. "Would you care for some dinner? The food here is quite hot."

"That doesn't mean it's good," the Dunmer replied mildly.

Gelebor was content to simply watch this exchange. He wasn't bothering to so much as hide his smile. These were his esteemed world-saving companions.

Vidrald, for his part, nodded gravely. "Yes, I do believe Orgnar told me something to the same effect. The innkeeper, that is. But shame on you, Teldryn. To imply any ill will towards the food in this establishment, you must have forgotten the provisions that kept us through the Reach."

Teldryn made a revolted face. "Ugh. Vidrald, don't do this to me. I had all this time to try to let go of those memories."

"Never let go of memories like those," the Nord said, with mock sharpness. "They let you realize all that you've taken for granted. Decent food, for example."

At this point, Gelebor had to speak up. "I don't know about you, but if there's truly this much grief about the food served here, I'll stay with the ale."

He dearly hoped this Orgnar fellow wasn't listening to them right now. Whether an exchange of gold was involved or not, it was terribly imprudent to insult one's own host. After all, it _was_ still raining outside. Gelebor wasn't eager to be ejected from the building.

Naturally, the moment he thought of this, another crack of thunder rippled through the air outside. This was uncanny. It reminded him of Bthar-zel, almost, in the fashion of things being inadvertently controlled by his own thoughts.

For the sake of indulging his curiosity, the snow elf took a few seconds to imagine a clear, sunny afternoon, with singing birds and breezing wind. A nice warm day, where he could feel the grass under his feet, and enjoy the peacefulness of the outdoors.

No change. The rain continued falling on the roof above. At least the imagery had been pleasant.

Teldryn asked, "Well… before we settle down for the evening, I do have one question for you, Vidrald. Did our ghost friend tell you anything about what's waiting for us in the Rift?"

"You mean for our final stop for the Aetherium?" Vidrald paused. "Not very much. We're looking for a very small ruin by the name of Bthalft. It sounds as though it hasn't been opened since the Aetherium Wars. So, I suppose, uh… much like Bthar-zel, I'm expecting quite a lot of automatons, and likely no Betrayed at all. But beyond that… no, beyond that, I have nothing."

"That should suffice," Gelebor shrugged, before taking a sip of his own ale. It bit at his tongue as much as ever. Someday, he might understand how Nords abided this, but it might not be soon.

It was strange, to think that their journey was coming to its final steps already. It had lasted only for a span of weeks. After so many centuries alone in Darkfall Cave, Gelebor had expected something more. But at the same time… these weeks had been so full of change. If they continued much longer, he might have risked forgetting what his life had been beforehand.

He had been concerned only with his own corner of existence, once. His Chantry, his family, his race. His legacy. And he had thought himself enlightened under Auri-El's guidance. But it had taken this journey, this fleeting journey through the endless expanse of Skyrim, for him to begin to truly learn what was important in the world. And there would never be any going back.

He was lucky that he had such gifted companions with whom to carry out Auri-El's world-saving command. Without them, this mission surely would have ended long ago with his own death.

"We did survive Bthar-zel and Arkngthamz knowing just as little, I suppose," Teldryn said.

"That's the spirit," Vidrald smiled reassuringly. "Now, let me go talk to Orgnar and see about getting you some beds for the night. I'll be back in a moment."

The Nord proceeded to swing a leg over the table's bench seat, step out into the room—and then snag his other foot on the seat, and fall flat on the stone floor. He landed with a heavy, metal-crunching thud.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at him.

"I'm fine," he said, from his sprawled position on the floor. His one foot was still hanging on the bench. "I'm fine, don't worry."

Gelebor grimaced and turned his attention back to Teldryn. "Oh… We're all going to die, aren't we?"


	54. Logrolf 7

Tirdas, 1:10 PM, 75th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Hidden Location

The die was cast. The Heart of Lorkhan had landed in Skyrim.

It came now in the wake of many other things. Some of them had been rather trivial, such as the brief manifestation of Red Mountain in the midst of Skyrim. Others had been quite simply alarming.

Alduin could not see into the major cities of Skyrim. They had been filled with the blinding poison of Aetherium ore. But by observing the mortal goings-on outside them, he still learned more than enough. The latest was that the Jarl of Blackreach had been crowned High King of Skyrim, and thus had the refined Aetherium had been removed from Dawnstar.

This had not been an avoidable setback. He reminded himself that the shield of politics had delayed the mortals' usage of the last Aetherium shard longer than anything else could have. Certainly, to hide it by normal means would have been a futile effort. But now it was in the hands of his enemies, and he no longer knew its location. It was moving, he knew not where. And this did trouble him.

But the Heart of Lorkhan had landed, and all Alduin needed to do was to reach out and seize it. It had landed far away from his hidden shelter, from the place in which he resided alongside the conduit. But all he had to do was to claim it for himself, and the mortals' paltry efforts with their Aetherium shards would be neatly undone.

Once, Alduin had been a man. A part of him had been, at least—the mortal man whose lust for power had doomed him to take part in Alduin's return. The man named Logrolf, who had once served the Daedra, and who had lost his duplicitous god at the hands of the one in the golden mask. The Dragonborn.

The Dragonborn still watched over the plane of Aetherius. And even now, Alduin would not risk that confrontation. But the part of him that had once been Logrolf wanted to make that man pay. He had taken everything away from Alduin, both in his mortal and immortal origins. It was his doing that had caused all of these terrible events.

Alduin had once been the herald of the end of the world's cycle. It had been his duty to bring the world to a close so that it could be reborn in its next form. But the Dragonborn had broken that limit. He had cast Alduin down, and now destroyed all that would ever allow Time to renew itself. It would be a pleasure to end him.

But still, whether he played the role of the World-Eater or not, Alduin was the son of Akatosh, and he knew the nature of Time. His conduit had steadily allowed the fibers of Time's flow to snag and tangle upon one another. So much of the world had been corrupted now that this was not only feasible, but indeed inevitable. The mortals would not know what had come upon them.

And, of course, this was before Alduin claimed the Heart of Lorkhan. He would be leaving his shelter soon. Once his draugr closed in on the Heart, and began to tap into its power for him. Then he would no longer need to stay here.

It was at this time, as he was contemplating his departure from his refuge, that he sensed the foreign presence. It was distant, very distant, not even on this plane. He felt it through the reach of the conduit, where it exited into its anonymous reach of Aetherius. Someone was coming into the conduit's passage.

Someone was coming in. That shouldn't have been possible. The conduit was completely hidden, as it always had been. Its aura was no greater or lesser than the ambient aura anywhere else in Skyrim. Yet here was a foreign presence, he understood not what kind, and it was steadily invading the tunnel that led straight to his conduit's physical form here in Mundus.

Alduin thought quickly. There was only one thing he could do in response to this. He reached out with a single, flickering black hand, and laid his fingertips on the conduit's stone surface.

Then he was inside

the Aurbis itself

a swirling tempest of stars above

a fiery mark across the sky

halting short of the end

landing in the very midpoint

Alduin stood upon a smooth, featureless circular platform of dark stone, exactly one hundred feet wide. There was no other land. All around him, above and below, was nothing but vivid starry sky, clouded with vivid sweeping auroras of blue and red and green. There was no sun, no moons in this place. The auroras turned and shifted around him, changing with every passing second, while the stars beyond them slowly revolved over and under the platform.

This was the inside of the conduit. He anchored himself here, against the foreign presence.

Across from him on the platform stood an entity he scarcely recognized. But he did recognize this entity indeed. The giant jointed metal body, the spikes and ridges of its design, the all-cleaving sword it held at its side.

"Hello, Jyggalag," Alduin said.

The metal figure walked slowly towards the center of the platform. Beneath the light of the aurora, it shone in a thousand different subtle colors all at once. It spoke to him in a deep, commanding voice. "Your end is upon you, Alduin."

Alduin walked slowly as the same. His body was perhaps half the height of Jyggalag's, for it largely retained the form of its mortal host. But he was beyond the limits of mortal flesh. His body was one of darkness, wreathed in black flame, with the timeless armor of dragon scale melded into his skin.

He opened his hand. A long-bladed sword of his aura's light-consuming flame burst into existence in his grasp.

"You made a mistake coming here, Jyggalag. The planes of Oblivion are no target of mine. You would have been safe."

The two of them continued to approach one another. Soon, they would meet. And Alduin would do all in his power to be ready for that moment. He knew not to underestimate his enemies. And more than that, he understood what it meant to confront one as eternal as this.

But he also understood that this was a risk for them both. Jyggalag had not made himself known here as a mere apparition, in the fashion of Shor. He had arrived in his true, physical form, every bit as tangible as Alduin himself. That meant that both of them had the potential to destroy the other, here and now, right in this Aetherial arena.

"You are foolish as ever," Jyggalag said. "The denizens of Oblivion have never been content to stay in their own realm. And neither am I. The world of Mundus is not yours to destroy."

Alduin inclined his head ever so slightly as he walked. "Of all the people you could say that to, why would you choose the one whose title is World-Eater?"

"Call yourself what you like. The truth will carry on with or without you."

Jyggalag's sphere was that of order. It allowed him to deduce the future based upon the past and present. And that meant that he would not have come here if he had predicted his own defeat.

Yet that was not the only option besides the prediction of victory. Alduin suspected that neither of them truly knew the outcome of this encounter, or their fight would have already begun.

"I decide what the truth is, Jyggalag. You should know that by now. Such is the power I wield."

They were close now. Alduin could see the contours of Jyggalag's impassive metallic face. This was the face of his newest enemy. They were both ready to fight—and only one of them would leave this passage alive.

Jyggalag raised his sword up in front of him. "You are powerful indeed. But you are no Daedric Prince."

The dragon-being crossed the remaining distance at a sprint, and with a roar of everlasting might, leapt into the air with his sword aloft.

A flash of metal crossed before him, and his blade was instantly parried. He felt himself be thrown aside by the impact, and landed with an effortless roll back to his feet, in time to see Jyggalag swing outward at his neck. He caught the sword in a deft hanging parry of his own, cast it aside, and closed in for a low strike to the ankle. But the Daedra moved his foot back at the exact same moment, and came down with a downward swing upon Alduin's head.

All of that happened in barely a second's time. At the last instant, Alduin reached into the threads of space, and pulled himself through. His body vanished in a flash of lingering black flame, and reappeared in the same moment beside Jyggalag's left flank.

There was already a massive metallic instep kick coming up at his chin. It was too late to avoid. He felt the cracking force of the blow through his whole skull. But it mattered little. It was an opportunity. He brought his sword up in a driving strike, right at Jyggalag's foot, before it could get out of his reach.

At that moment, he saw the point of the giant metal sword coming down at his chest. No opportunity after all.

This time, he blinked through space to stand directly behind his opponent's back.

" _Yol-toor-shul!_ "

The blast of fire came as a brilliant, cascading wave. But Jyggalag turned and held out his empty left hand, and with an idle flick of his fingers, the fire dissolved into nothing.

It made sense that the Daedric Prince was so difficult to catch off-guard. His sphere was that of order. He had used his grasp of cause and effect, no doubt, to locate the conduit's opening in Aetherius. Such was the nature of his foreknowledge. And the same power was making him aware of every attack before it came in. If only that were enough to allow him to survive this encounter.

Alduin stepped forward once again, and the fight continued.

Jyggalag did not wait for the distance to be closed. He lunged forward abruptly with a low thrust, one arm outstretched, the other behind himself. A good, fast strike. One that could have ended the fight in a single blow. But Alduin did not wait either.

The dragon sped up to a sprinting charge just as the sword approached him, then blinked five feet upward into the air, straight over the incoming thrust. He brought his sword down right upon his opponent's armored head.

But there was nothing there to strike. Jyggalag had already sidestepped the attack. And with his empty left hand, he grabbed Alduin by the back of the neck, and flung him hard at the floor.

The fool. He couldn't have expected this to end well for him.

Before Alduin could land upon the stone surface below, he simply blinked back up behind Jyggalag's head, and resumed his strike with even more speed than last time.

A solid metal elbow came up and slammed into his face. Pain shot through him all at once. He lost hold of his sword, landed on his back on the unyielding ground. That didn't slow him in the slightest. He jumped up onto his feet and recalled his sword into his hand in the same move.

Jyggalag was bringing his sword around in a one-handed horizontal swing, aiming to cut Alduin cleanly in half. There was no time to dodge it. Alduin simply blinked into the same place he was now, and let the blade pass through him in the split second that he was traveling through the threads of space.

Then it was his turn, because Jyggalag had finished his swing with his arm held across his own body. Again, he was vulnerable. Alduin lunged forward and brought his sword straight up at his opponent's wrist, before the motion of the swing was even complete.

But once again, his weapon hit nothing but air. The Daedra had stepped back—and let go of his sword. For a split second, the weapon hung nearly still in the air, just barely rising before just barely beginning to fall. And in a graceful, blindingly fast maneuver, Jyggalag moved both hands clockwise at once. His right, neatly moving out of the way of the incoming attack. His left, grabbing onto his sword in a reverse grip, just long enough to use it to counterattack.

And now Alduin was vulnerable, with his sword still high in the air. Jyggalag's blade could have taken both of his arms off in this one oddly-held strike. There was no choice but to blink away once again. This time, he went to the Daedra's left side once more, where there was seemingly nothing on guard awaiting him. But given everything so far, he already knew what to expect.

Or perhaps he did not. This time, no new attack was already coming his way. Jyggalag had stepped away, and sunk into a defensive stance, awaiting the next move. There was no point in moving to attack immediately.

"Is this it?" The dragon laughed. He was slowly circling to the right, making Jyggalag turn to follow him. Both of their weapons remained on guard. "Is this all you can do? You're a disgrace."

Jyggalag turned his head ever so slightly. His face remained blank, but he must have been having some sort of reaction. "You couldn't pick a less suitable being to try to goad into foolish action."

"Oh, I don't know. It seems I already goaded you into coming here to begin with." The truth was, of course, that this encounter had been entirely unexpected. But that wasn't to say that it couldn't end in Alduin's favor. He had already healed fully from the pain of the previous strikes. If Jyggalag intended to kill him, he would have to try far harder.

"You are doomed to failure, whether by my hand or not," Jyggalag said. "But I would prefer your plans to advance no further."

The Heart of Lorkhan. That was what he was referring to. He simply didn't want to see Alduin gain access to such an immense source of power. That was why he was here today.

But why would he come here today, so late in the order of things, if he had already foreseen his own success in this duel? He could have chosen to seek out the conduit and end Alduin's plans the very day they had been put in motion.

Unless his victory was not certain in his own mind, and this was an act of desperation. Alduin betrayed no emotion externally, but within his mind, there was nothing but triumph, for Jyggalag had just unwittingly betrayed his own doubt.

Really, Alduin should have thought of that all already. Not that he had a low opinion of his own reasoning skills. He'd simply been a little bit busy this past minute or so. And, he suspected, he would continue to be busy for some time yet.

Jyggalag closed the gap between them with a single, massive step, and swung his sword in an upward, diagonal slash. Instantly, Alduin responded with a great discharge of shock magic from his free hand. It flooded over the stone floor like a searing, snapping river of magical energy, threatening to destroy all in its path. And it went straight at his opponent's feet.

As an afterthought, he parried the incoming blade with his own, and let it slide up over his head. He was more than free to retaliate, even as the shock magic continued to spread forth below.

But even this didn't suffice. Jyggalag jumped back one full pace, evading the shock spell just as it reached his forward foot—and evading Alduin's sword strike entirely—and at the same time, swept his empty left hand up over the ground. The path of the spell broke like a wave on the shore.

Alduin blinked away to the far side of the platform before he could be attacked again. The Daedra had proven that he would not be felled by direct means alone. It was time to introduce a new tactic.

He had never used this outside Mundus. But he expected it would work much the same. He needed only focus on the part of himself that he understood best. The part that yearned to see everything unmade.

There were no words to this Thu'um. No sound issued forth but the booming thunderclap of the magic itself. For an instant, everything seemed unchanged—and then the starry sky was cloaked in a tempest of burning clouds.

Jyggalag turned and looked up above. There was nothing to see. Not until a flaming meteor streaked down and smashed into the middle of the platform.

This would not damage their fighting surface. This entire arena was little more than a metaphor given physical form. And it would not harm Alduin—never could a dragon be harmed by the power of his own Thu'um. There was only one vulnerable target of this magic.

Certainly, Jyggalag would be able to predict the locations of these things in advance. But he could be forced into a situation where his predictions wouldn't matter. That would be their turning point.

The two combatants strode towards one another silently. Another meteor landed on the platform, and then another, both fairly close to Jyggalag's path. But nothing was stopping this Daedric Prince from continuing his fight.

Of course, nothing was stopping Alduin either. This was his conduit. His battleground. He enjoyed it even more without the stars turning overhead.

In the last twenty feet, Alduin sped up to a run. His opponent did the same. They met at the very center of the platform, and resumed their fight amid the rain of fire.

Their first strikes both missed entirely. The dragon dropped his head down as Jyggalag's blade passed over it, and lunged forward at a leg that had already stepped aside. Then he came up with a vertical cut of his sword's near edge, only for Jyggalag to parry it, then ride his blade up with a thrust to the chest.

Alduin blinked away just as the silvery point touched his armored skin.

An instant later, he reappeared past Jyggalag's side with an outward slash to the back of the knee. His target was supposed to be there. It wasn't. Instead, he was met with a solid metal kick between the shoulder blades. The ground came up and struck his front, even as it shook with the unceasing meteoric impacts of his own magic.

Without even looking, he blinked back to where he'd been before, just high enough up to land on his feet. Jyggalag was facing the other way, carrying his sword out from a downward swing where the dragon had just been.

And yet somehow, when Alduin moved in to strike, his blade still clashed with Jyggalag's own. Neither of them moved away. They held together for a moment, turning and pushing, trying to lever their weapons into one another, circling slowly in place with laborious struggling steps. Alduin could have blinked out of this at any moment. But he didn't.

That was because a meteor was coming down right upon them.

It was incredibly sudden. Jyggalag let go of his sword with one hand just long enough to shove Alduin away, then stepped back and raised the same hand over his head. The meteor stopped in midair just a few feet above him, burning furiously in place. Then, with the same telekinetic force, he flung it with all his might at the ground upon which Alduin stood.

In that instant, the dragon realized that this fight was not going to be resolved by any means he had ever used before. This enemy, this one enemy was simply too powerful. He was able to see too much in advance, able to do too much in response. He was the Daedric Prince of Order. For everything that had a cause, he knew its effect.

He blinked away to Jyggalag's left side, and put his sword up on guard. But he had no intention of attacking. Not now.

The conduit allowed him to circumvent all different limits. The threads of space were one. Those were safe to travel. He was faced with a far more dangerous limit to traverse, one he had never willingly undertaken before. But he believed he could do this.

He believed it because Jyggalag didn't know the outcome of this fight. He now understood with perfect clarity why not. The Daedric Prince of Order saw all things in paths of cause and effect. There was a very simple way to disrupt this form of insight.

The metal being strode towards him and prepared another strike. It could come at any angle.

Alduin blinked away.

He reappeared right in Jyggalag's path, and caught the incoming attack with a deflecting parry.

Or: He reappeared behind Jyggalag's shoulders, and dismissed his sword.

He let Jyggalag's blade pass over him, then brought his sword down atop it and pinned it against the ground.

Or: He reached through the row of thin spikes, and grabbed tightly onto Jyggalag's head with both hands.

The force of his action struck through his heart and mind with shattering pain. He had just traversed the branches of Time, and put himself in two places at once. Few were the times that this had ever been done. But now was not the time to reflect on that. He ignored the first path, and concentrated all on the second.

The meteors raged on around them. But this fight was over. Sometimes it felt good to be the one doing the cheating.

He held on tight, still perched behind Jyggalag's metal shoulders, and sent himself forth into the Daedra's mind.

All was consumed. He felt nothing but a mind-searing wall of agony. Jyggalag was attacking him, driving him out. But he focused and pushed back, and the agony burned all around them, and he wrenched his way through Oblivion, and tore the path open ahead, and reached within.

Order and chaos circled around him as one. Clarity burned into his mind, clarity, perception, understanding, it all floated in place, orbiting around a many-layered core. The core. Memories of time, memories of madness, of love, of hatred, all of them crushing and deforming against each other, bending into unrecognizable shapes, destroying all that they once were.

His body was ablaze. He was burning away to a skeletal self, holding on with nothing but charred bone, numb with nonexistence, yet still somehow hurting. And he wasn't holding onto a Daedra at all, but a mortal being—a dark-skinned female, one he did not recognize, crying out in pain. Another identity, another layer. There was no stopping now.

He forced himself to see with the other's eyes. The memories spun and twisted and strangled each other, and the eyes of Oblivion, the eyes of Order, they saw so much. They burned with all-consuming light inside his very skull, they were too much, they were never too much, they were what he needed. He reached further and further, to see all things to their conclusion.

The mortal being could not resist him. He held her in place as he sifted through the burning overwhelm of everything else.

The threads of the conduit were nothing in comparison. The infinities of existence were laid out to him as simply as a single forked path. He viewed the causes, the effects, the workings of Jyggalag's mind, and he knew what this meant. He may not have had long, but he already knew what thoughts to pursue.

Images came to him. The adventurers leaving Arkngthamz, leaving the one draugr he had seen them through, and continuing their journey through Skyrim. They skipped through conversations and encounters in the blink of an eye, exchanging ideas, exchanging information. They raced from city to city, collecting one shard of Aetherium after another, until all four clicked together in a perfect circular crest, its design flashing right in front of him, the bright blue surfaces shining with their own inner power.

Then came the things that had not yet come, but would unless intervened with. The path they took from their meeting place, the path east, beyond the Throat of the World, beyond the massive mountains and into the forest. Another design flashed before his eyes, of a great metal ring suspended around a tiny sphere, all intersected by a sculpted metal arrow through the center, standing at an odd angle.

Then came a name. Bthalft. And immediately, he committed it to memory. Bthalft. Beneath it, he saw the coursing lava, the fearsome machinery, the adventurers using the sacred device for themselves, with the Aetherium crest in hand. He saw a glimpse, another flash of the blue magical essence, now shaped into something far greater—

There was a horrible, gut-wrenching shearing sensation, and something came loose from him. The connection severed in an instant. The arena returned to him.

Cold, steely fingers closed around his neck, and flung him out over the dark stone. He landed to a skidding halt, the flames of his shadow trailing behind him. Everything was in disarray. His thoughts were everywhere.

A moment passed in silence. And then Alduin slowly pushed himself upright. The sky above was perfectly clear, stars shining through the light of the aurora. All was silent.

Something had gone missing from him, and he didn't understand what it was. He couldn't remember what it had been. Perhaps it had been something truly great, something vital to his survival. He could not tell.

Across from him, Jyggalag was down on one knee and one hand, clutching at the hilt of his sword where it lay on the ground. There was no more connection between them. That was gone. It had all ended.

Alduin forced himself to stand upright, and summoned his sword back into his hand. This was his chance. He reached through the threads of space to blink across the distance between them.

Nothing happened. He was reaching into the dark. But not the dark. He was reaching into nothingness. His sight of space, his connection to all of the threads through the conduit, it had gone blind.

The rest filled itself in. The remaining memories, the things he had failed to understand he had forgotten. Now he remembered what Jyggalag had done to him, just seconds ago, before the connection ended. The Daedra had prevented Alduin from pursuing him in his weakened state. And he had done it by sabotaging the limits of Alduin's own power.

What was to happen next?

"Your time is coming soon," Jyggalag said, as composed and threatening as ever, even as he struggled back to his feet. But he didn't wait for a response. He simply disappeared into the stars beyond.

He must have intended to retreat to some place of safety. And now Alduin could not stop him. But it mattered not. This fight was over.

The dragon abandoned the arena in kind, and returned to his place of refuge. The conduit's place of refuge. It was as guarded and undisturbed as ever. He stood in place before the great floating orb, and considered his next move.

He had intended to pursue the Heart of Lorkhan himself. But now, he was content to leave that to the others under his control. He could tap into its power through them just as easily. There was a far more important matter that demanded his attention.

Bthalft. That was the name of the location he had seen. The golden arrow through the ringed sphere, the fiery device that had lain below. That was where the adventurers were traveling.

Alduin was reluctant to leave the conduit unprotected. And so he spent some time carefully crafting a barrier around its place of refuge. It was not a perfect thing, but since this was no longer at the center of his plans, he cared little. There was no risk of it being used against him. It was not like the Heart of Lorkhan, or the Aetherium shards. It was a threat to his enemies only.

But all the same, he endowed it with all the protection he could muster. No one short of the Dragonborn, he imagined, could bring this down quickly enough to pass through. Likely, it would only last for a matter of days without his direct attention, but that was more than enough time for his mission to reach its end.

And so he departed from the conduit's place of refuge, quite possibly to never look back. If anything went as he desired, this place would be destroyed along with the rest of Mundus before he could have the chance to return.

In the meantime, he had adventurers to kill.


	55. Zaryth 8

Tirdas, 10:11 AM, 75th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Tel Varlais

Research. Research, research, research. Zaryth couldn't keep doing this.

It was quite nice that everyone here in Blackreach was being so reassuring to her. She wasn't supposed to kill herself on this, there was only so much work that one mage could do, they didn't need her to somehow make miracles out of nothing, so on, so forth. That was nice. But she couldn't help but feel that maybe she was the bottleneck in their efforts to save the world. She, specifically, herself. No one else.

There were a few reasons why.

One was what they'd learned about the orb so far. Farengar, rather unsurprisingly at this point, had been able to translate much of the Ayleid text engraved on the orb. It hadn't been perfect, but with some use of context, he'd managed to fill it in like so:

"… the last of Mundus, never to be replaced again. All things are doomed to burn, and their ashes to fade forever into nothing. This, I will into being, for I am Alduin."

Presumably, the upper half of the orb had the first portion of the text on it. Zaryth wasn't sure how much it would help. There had never been a firm idea of what the orb was even for, exactly, but it was hard to narrow anything down beyond 'destroy Mundus' anyway.

Another reason for her feelings was the recent events she'd been hearing about. Honestly, Zaryth had never felt more woefully alone in her work. That Altmer assistant of J'zargo's, Aicantar, had been arrested for high treason. And J'zargo himself had spent a whole lot of time trying to make that right. It turned out that not everyone was good at keeping secret what they saw and heard down here. The end result, as far as Zaryth's work was concerned, was that she didn't have her new Khajiit friend around to help.

And then there was the volcano. She just… she'd been trying not to think about the volcano. But she'd heard plenty. It sounded like the only real loss was that Kamian had been put in a coma, which… was, actually, rather horrible. But what in the gods-damned Oblivion-twisted world was this supposed to be? How could a volcano just appear out of nowhere, and then vanish just as quickly? Had reality broken down that badly already?

No one here wanted to talk about that very much. And Zaryth most certainly understood why not. Simply thinking about it put a horrible, seizing chill through her chest. Whiterun had come within minutes—maybe seconds—of the same fate that she'd seen happen to her own home. And then every time she thought about it, she started wondering how Thorald would've reacted to see _his_ home lost that way.

There was no hiding from her feelings, when her thoughts got to that part. Of all the people in the world who could be broken so badly, who could have their old life simply wiped away, Thorald deserved it least of all. It put tears in her eyes every time.

Such as right now. Now would be a time that that was happening.

Zaryth had been up and about in her lab for a few hours. Sort of by simple coincidence, her sleep patterns currently resembled those of a normal person. But she wasn't even sure where she was with her work. At this point, there wasn't much that needed doing besides locating the orb. She just… didn't know how.

Right now, she was sitting at her counter in front of the alchemy lab, working away like usual. It wasn't anything special or even related to the project, just some healing and stamina potions. Nothing she had to pay attention to. It was merely to take her mind off things, and give her a chance to relax. But that obviously wasn't working.

The Dunmer glanced over at the great glass bowl a short distance along the shelf. The one that was filled with bright silver liquid. She'd had a bit of a discovery about that, the other day. And it wasn't even the result of what she could call proper experiment.

The discovery was fairly simple, even if it was about something deeply complex. The reason that substance didn't resemble Aetherium was because it wasn't simply Aetherial essence. It was, in a strange, metaphorical sense, the Dragonborn. It was an extension of his being, and Aetherial matter simply happened to be the medium. Given how she'd acquired it, this shouldn't have been a surprise. The only comprehensible part of the experience had been that Iseus had given this to her.

At this point, she knew better than to question the exact process behind this material. It resembled nothing else in the physical world. In fact, she'd only learned as much as she had by ingesting some of it and contemplating the results in her mind. The… very spectacularly spiritual results. The only time she'd ever felt more loved was in Thorald's company. It seemed fitting for someone so bent on doing good things for all of Mundus. To observe Iseus' spiritual echo, as it were, had been a singular privilege.

Because she didn't want to deplete the reserve, Zaryth had stopped herself from ingesting much more than that. It felt strangely reminiscent of consuming properly mind-affecting substances, even if that wasn't the actual mechanic taking place here. Perhaps reading the Elder Scrolls would have been a better analogy, not that she'd ever tried that one herself.

Unfortunately, that discovery had nothing to do with finding the orb. She suspected it would have some use yet—why else would the Dragonborn have given her so much?—but at the moment, it wasn't coming to her.

She focused again on her potions. The clear mixture was dripping from the main apparatus into an earthen vial, which looked to be approaching full. That was her cue to switch it out for an empty vial, and put a stopper in it and leave it by all the others. This was her fifth so far.

These potions would probably end up being poured into some Black Gear's injector tubes. On an impulse, she turned all of the fronts of the vials towards her to make sure they were correctly labeled. Nothing would have been worse than for someone to end up using a mismatched potion during combat.

And she was doing a good job of this. She wanted to do a good job of this. At least _something_ could go the way she desired.

Then, all of a sudden, a familiar, cheerful voice behind her said, "Good morning!"

She twisted around in her seat and looked. Thorald was standing there on the levitation platform, smiling brightly. He was out of his armor, just wearing his usual light clothes, and he looked so… just so… Words, she had to use words. "Uh… Yes. Good morning to you, also. Can I help you?"

"Sort of the question I was planning on asking you," the Nord shrugged, before strolling on over towards her. "I heard Farengar's translation came back. I was curious about that."

"Oh, Azura, I'm trying not to think about that right now." Zaryth turned back around and put her head in her hands, both elbows resting on the counter. Her head was aching a bit. Actually, it might have been doing that for a fair while now. 'Headache' must have simply become her new default.

A moment later, a strong pair of hands laid heavily on her shoulders. Thorald's voice said, "I'm here now. Just relax. … Are these potions for something, now?"

"No, not really." And that was, of course, the truth. But a moment later, she picked her head up a little and amended the thought. "I just wanted to pay attention to something besides all the… you know what I'm talking about, right?"

She reached up and held onto one of Thorald's hands with her own. He'd come up right behind her in her seat, but there was no need to even look. She could literally feel him there. Still, she gave his hand a glance, at least. … He kept his fingernails rather immaculately filed. Maybe wearing gauntlets all the time let him get away with that.

Well, it certainly hadn't taken her long to find something else to think about. This was already working much better than the potions had.

"I think so." Thorald let go and went over to sit against the edge of the counter by her. Now she could see him more properly. He smiled down at her as he continued talking. "You know, I'm actually a little surprised you're still wearing your College robes."

"What?" Zaryth stared blankly at him for a few seconds, before remembering what he was talking about. She'd forgotten all about that. J'zargo had seen about getting her some sort of upgrade recently. "… Right, that. I don't know. This is a… I don't know. Honestly, at this point, I'm prepared to admit that I don't know anything."

The Nord peered down at her curiously. "Is this all because you haven't been able to find the orb?"

"It is what we're waiting for, isn't it?"

"Among other things, I suppose," he shrugged. "Finding Alduin is on the list too. So is Kamian waking up, actually, but we, uh… we can't do much about that one, I suppose. If we're going to focus on finding the orb, then, uh…"

Thorald's sentence trailed off unfinished, and stayed that way. He glanced at the alchemy lab next to him with no particular expression.

The Dunmer followed his glance, then nodded in understanding. She replied, "If you have some sort of idea in mind, we can leave this alone for a minute. I don't know why this is, but seemingly whenever I have someone in here with me, it's suddenly much easier to have new ideas."

"Makes sense." Going by the nodding look on his face, this seemed as obvious as pointing out that the sun rose in the morning. "A fresh perspective will do that. And having someone to talk to, I imagine. What, do you expect other people to do nothing but slow you down?"

For some reason, that question came as a bit of a surprise. But perhaps it shouldn't have. Zaryth was struck with an oddly sudden feeling of perspective. She phrased her reply as carefully as she could.

"You know, maybe… maybe once, I actually did. But I think it's safe to say that the normal rules of existence simply don't apply in Blackreach. Or if they do, then we've developed a culture with a healthy disdain for them. I'm a Telvanni mage, and you're a Nord warrior. My colleagues would have dismissed you as being some _mundane_. That was a real term they used for those without the capacity for spells. And I would certainly have been ridiculed for courting you. Now, here in Skyrim, I would expect to be looked down upon as a Dunmer, and distrusted as a mage. Still unsuitable for a warrior like yourself. And yet here we are."

At some point, Thorald had begun to smile. Now he was simply beaming at her. "In that case, I couldn't be happier that Blackreach exists the way it does. It doesn't even matter if the end times are truly upon us, I think. This is a beautiful place, and if I stopped to describe all the ways you brighten it, we'd never get any work done."

In keeping with Nordic cultural ideals, Zaryth promptly followed what her heart desired, and stood up suddenly to take Thorald in a great big kiss. Their arms closed around each other in an instant. She lost track of time right away. How was anyone as strong as this, and as delicate as this, at the same time? She could have melted into his embrace here and now, and stayed for as long as her feet would let her stand up for it. That was due to happen right now anyway.

But eventually, Thorald leaned back from her, and glanced at something over her shoulder. She followed his eyes once again, and this time saw the map of Skyrim over by the far wall. The great big map on its freestanding wooden frame, covered in bright blue dots with tiny black numbers written on them.

"Your homeland," she said, letting go of the embrace with one arm so she could look at the map more comfortably. "I've been keeping track of the shooting stars as best I can. It's something of a daily habit now."

Thorald let go the rest of the way, and walked slowly around the central railing for a closer look. No doubt, the map was marked with a fair few more dots than the last time he'd seen it. "How many of these are there?"

"I'm up to one hundred thirty… something," Zaryth said, scratching her head as she followed along. "I have two hundred pins right now for it, but for all I know, the world will end before we get to that many."

"Is it just me, or are there more of them than normal on the Throat of the World?"

"No, it's not just you. I noticed that as well." The map was largely evenly scattered with landing sites, with a vague emphasis towards the center. But a closer look indicated that they were focused not on the center, exactly, but a short distance to the southeast. South of the city of Whiterun, east of the village of Riverwood, west of the village of Ivarstead. It took up quite a bit of space on the map.

Thorald walked up to arm's reach of the canvas surface, and reached out to touch one of the pins with his fingertips. "I wonder what that's about."

"Well, at first, I suspected that the orb might have been relocated there. But that would make no sense at all. Not that the shooting stars wouldn't focus on the orb's location—they seem to have a tendency to fall in rather fitting places—but that Alduin would take refuge in the Dragonborn's own shadow. He can't be stupid enough to try hiding under his enemy's nose. Iseus isn't omniscient, but he's also not _blind_."

The Nord glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at her. "Did Iseus tell you that himself?"

"Possibly," she grinned. "He seems to be as lost as to its actual location as myself, however. The Throat of the World is secure by necessity, but it's only a tiny fraction of all the land in Skyrim, and it's lacking in suitable underground spaces anyway."

That was the last that either of them said for a while. They ended up standing side by side in front of the map, simply studying it, looking for anything new. Any patterns, anything interesting landing sites. Nothing was coming to mind. The pins were all such a jumble. No one could get anything from this information.

After a minute or two, Thorald made a low, contemplative noise, apropos to seemingly nothing.

Zaryth gave him a curious look. "… Hm?"

"I'm remembering something you said once," he murmured.

And immediately, it put a feeling of knowing apprehension in Zaryth's chest. Apprehension, perhaps, or anticipation. She wasn't sure what, but on some instinctual level, she knew that Thorald was thinking back to something important.

She asked, "What was it, exactly?"

"During your presentation, where you first showed us this map." He stepped back from it slowly, and gave the whole thing an appraising look. That feeling was only increasing. "You said that these things aren't marked according to date. Or something like that. If you look at them all, you can't tell really when they landed."

"That's true. Am I missing something here?"

"Well, what if the… the distribution of the shooting stars, what if it's changed? You wouldn't be able to tell, because there are so many pins on here already. The new pattern would get lost in all the rest."

Zaryth stared silently at the map. No, she had not thought of that before now. But she obviously should have. It was such a basic limitation of this map's setup. She had even commented on it, in reference to the impacts only starting in earnest with the Shadow Unending.

This wouldn't take long. The Dunmer didn't say a word. She simply went into her supply drawers, retrieved a brick of wet red clay—because what sort of self-respecting mage wouldn't have such a thing on hand—and, after a brief period of warming the clay up, began removing tiny pieces and sticking them on top of the bright blue pins of the map. This was the fastest way she could think of to mark the markers themselves.

And she wasn't applying the clay randomly. She was very carefully doing it in reverse numeric order, searching for the highest-numbered marker and putting a piece of clay over it, working her way down the list one by one. And gradually, the forest of bright blue began to bear a sporadic scattering of deep dark red. This would be easy enough to distinguish at a glance.

At some point, Thorald had pulled over one of her dining chairs and sat down to watch. He seemed content not to even ask what this was about. Perhaps he already understood the idea.

It took her about thirty pieces of clay—approximately half of the entire brick—to notice the new pattern. Zaryth should have been able to see this before. She truly felt that she should have. Some of the recent markers were, predictably, clustered around the Throat of the World. But an oddly high frequency were occurring in what felt like an impossible place—the northeastern end of Skyrim. The area known to its inhabitants as Winterhold Hold.

So something had begun drawing the impacts there. Unless something entirely unrelated had emerged into play, this had to be the general location of the orb. Now, if she could narrow it down—

The answer came to her in a sudden, seizing instant. Alduin would have hidden the orb someplace he knew. Someplace secure, someplace where no one would find him by accident. There were only two such options in this corner of Skyrim, and one of them was Alftand. Impossible, now that it was so thoroughly populated.

"I'm going to put some things together," Zaryth said, without taking her eyes off the map. "Pick anyone you'd like for this mission. We won't have far to travel."

Thorald replied, "Oh, you figured it out. Where are we going, then?"

Middas, 4:43 PM, 76th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Saarthal Excavation Site

The pit emerged into view suddenly, very close up, as Zaryth reached the crest of a hill. Instantly, she could tell that something had changed. The coloration inside the pit was simply wrong. It looked as though an invisible purple-tinted canopy had been hung across the entire thing.

It was a clear, sunny day out here. Perfect visibility, barely any wind. The stars were already starting to emerge in the eastern end of the sky. But no further incidents had befallen them on the way to this site. And Zaryth, for her part, wasn't even particularly cold. Her new attire was essentially like J'zargo's, but with black robes instead of black armor. That meant that it included the dual enchant against fire and frost.

As she gazed upon the excavation site, some deep, prickling feeling stirred inside her. She wasn't sure what to make of it.

One of the Black Gears walked up by her side. The numbering on the near pauldron said it was Thorald. He said, "Looks like you were right. It _is_ here. And he's waiting for us."

They had brought Squads 29 and 30 with them for this mission. It wasn't clear how much use they'd all be, but according to Thorald, it didn't hurt to be thorough. And that was hard to disagree with. In Raldbthar, not even an improbable calamity of magic had stopped them. If their full force were usable here, it would take a world's worth of miracles to stop them.

"No surprise there. We prepared for that. Or at least, I did." Zaryth patted one of the straps of the black canvas pack she was carrying. It was filled to the brim, and not with survival gear.

"It just occurred to me," Thorald said. "This is where we first met. Remember that? With those assassins and their oculory lens? Feels like old history now."

The Dunmer couldn't help but chuckle. It wasn't even particularly mirthful, but she did it all the same. "You know… The last time I came here, I didn't care about a thing in the world besides scholarly study for its own sake. And I was so disappointed when I didn't find anything noteworthy. Now I'd give anything for this ruin to be empty again."

Thorald turned and looked at her silently. He was fully armored for this mission, and his face was hidden behind that fearsome, faceless visor the Black Machine was known for. There was no telling what thoughts were going through his mind right then. But surely, he was doing his best to remain aware of what thoughts were in Zaryth's own.

She smiled softly at him, at the dark slit where his eyes were, and reached over to give his armored shoulder a gentle touch. It really was Thorald in there. Maybe no one else out there knew that, but she did. "I imagine you'll give Alduin a good fright the moment he notices you."

Another Black Gear joined them. For this one, the pauldron numbers weren't necessary. He was identifiable by his size and build alone. Galurag, the leader of Squad 30. During this brief journey, he hadn't talked much, but Thorald seemed to trust him. That was plenty enough to go on.

Galurag was staring intently at the excavation site. He asked, "Zaryth, can you get us in there?"

"I can try," the Dunmer shrugged. She didn't see much reason to act more confident than she felt. The Black Machine's tactics didn't run on insincerity. "I brought a few things to help us get in. But we should be prepared for anything."

"As usual," Galurag commented.

The other Black Gears were joining them now. A couple of them had heavy self-loading crossbows in hand. None of them said anything. Now was the time, it seemed, to await orders.

Did that mean that it was Zaryth's time to _give_ orders? She didn't know what to think anymore.

But still, she began walking down the snowy slope towards the excavation site. "It's possible that Alduin himself will be here," she said. "If that's the case, we may be in for an unpredictable fight."

"Well, Iseus defeated him once," Thorald replied from just behind her. "That's a reasonable thing for us to live up to, isn't it?"

Up closer, the source of the open pit's odd lighting became steadily more apparent. There was a solid, tangible-looking wall of purple-tinted force, almost like glass, spanning the entire opening. It overlapped some of the wooden scaffolding and ramps around the far wall. Zaryth stopped about ten feet away from the edge, and gazed in silently.

No doubt, her Black Gear escorts were walking up behind her. But they were as inaudible as ever.

"So," Thorald's voice said. He reappeared by her side a moment later, with his helmet cradled in one arm. That was a bit of a surprise, albeit far from unpleasant. "Do you think your magic can get us through this?"

Zaryth turned and gave him a perfectly sweet smile. "Well, who said anything about _my_ magic?"

With that, she unslung her pack and began sorting through its contents, right there on the snowy slope. As she did, she explained to the others what devices were inside, although they were likely familiar with some of them already. And in the end, she ended up actually trading her pack for Thorald's own, to let him wear it himself—but not before extracting a single glass vial from inside.

When Savos Aren had thrown this substance into the ghost portal in Blackreach, it had instantly and permanently sealed. Zaryth could only presume that for other magical anomalies, it would behave in at least a similar fashion. Granted, she hadn't expected such a massive barrier at the very entrance, but this was good a place as any to put her preparations to use.

Someone else spoke up behind her. It took a moment to recognize the voice.

"I suppose it goes without saying, then, that we're sending Thorald in first."

The voice belonged to Echallos. At some point, he'd come around to stand at Thorald's opposite side, and was looking up at the Nord through his expressionless visor.

Once, Zaryth might have presumed that Echallos was simply envious of his squadmate getting the glory of being the first to go in. But that would have been entirely antithetical to the ways of the Black Machine. This was an army that worked without ranks, titles or commendations. Echallos wasn't showing envy, he was showing concern.

And understandably so, because he was absolutely right.

"I _am_ wearing the special backpack," Thorald said.

Zaryth walked slowly up to the edge of the excavation pit. It was something like a twenty-foot drop to the bottom, with only the purple field in the way. That thing was making her curious. She knelt down, scooped up a fistful of snow in her free hand, and tossed it aimlessly forward.

The snow spread out into a glittering, powdery arc as it traveled through the air. Then it landed on the transparent magical barrier, and promptly disintegrated in a puff of steam.

"Well, then," Thorald said flatly. At some point, he'd come up by the Dunmer's side again. That muffle enchant was making it terribly difficult to keep track of where he was.

Echallos asked, "You're going to send him in through that?"

"You know, I like my magic resistance ring," Thorald commented to no one in particular. "But this is no time to put that to the test. You think that silver stuff will do it, Zaryth?"

"It should," she nodded. "After everything else I had to make for this mission, this—" she held up the vial as she spoke— "was all I had left. And it's not a small amount. I have no doubt that it will disrupt this field, but I don't know by how much, or for how long. So I recommend you find someplace good to jump in. And once you're in, be sure to save some of your supply so you can get back out."

Echallos asked, "Are you sure it's a good idea to send Thorald first?"

"Well, in the event that we end up being able to send only one person in…" Zaryth shrugged. "Any of us on the outside will want to retreat to a safe distance away, afterward."

One of the other Black Gears—someone from Squad 30, holding a crossbow—called over to Thorald, "Hey! Do you want this thing?"

"No, you can bring it in after me," Thorald called back. He was already starting to circle around the excavation site, finding a better place to jump through.

There was little to do but follow him. Zaryth was starting to feel… something, about this. Walking after Thorald alongside this thing, watching him, knowing he'd likely be going in there soon… It conjured to mind something that Echallos had told her once, about what allowed warriors to keep doing what they did. He'd said it was a matter of bravery.

Today was likely a day for Thorald to be brave. That was what would be keeping him going through this. Zaryth almost rather envied that. He knew how to face the threat of his own death, and he was doing it right now, with perfect casual poise.

Zaryth was struck by a sudden, bizarre urge to grab Thorald by the arms and tell him not to do this. She only got as far as twitching her shoulders a bit. No, she couldn't do that. Why did she even want to do that?

It took less than a minute for Thorald to find his desired way in. He'd stopped in front of one of the ramp's middle platforms, where the drop would be short enough to spare him from any likely injury.

The Dunmer joined him and peered over at the spot he'd be entering through. She took a deep breath in, and tried to organize her thoughts. They had a procedure to follow. Now was the time for the next step in it. "All right. When you're ready, I'll throw the vial, and hopefully that'll, uh…"

She trailed off. This wasn't working.

Thorald leaned back and said over her shoulder, "Form up behind me! If this thing stays open for long enough, we'll want to get as many of us in as possible."

As the Black Gears went about silently lining up along the snowy hillside, Thorald and Zaryth stood still and looked at one another.

The problem wasn't the barrier in front of them. And it wasn't the red draugr likely waiting within the ruin, either. In fact, it wasn't even Alduin himself, if he was present. It was the means that Zaryth had devised for dealing with the orb. Ideally, it would only be deployed once the Black Machine had swept through the whole place and secured it all. But Zaryth was realizing now—or, perhaps, she'd been slowly realizing over the past few minutes—that they might not have that luxury. Not if Thorald was going to go in there alone.

This wasn't a situation where Thorald would either emerge victorious or let the whole world fall into ruin. His success and his survival were not dependent on one another. He must have realized that too, by now. But it didn't seem to be influencing him in the slightest.

"This should be good," Thorald said, still looking at her with that perfect calmness. "Thank you for doing so much for us, Zaryth. And for me. None of this would have been possible without you."

Zaryth opened her mouth and took a breath in.

A few seconds passed by in silence. Thorald was looking at her expectantly.

"… I have no idea what to say." She laughed sheepishly. "I don't ever do this. Just… tell me what to think. Please."

Thorald visibly held back a smile. Then, a moment later, he'd stepped right up to Zaryth, and put his free arm around her back. His armor was cool and rigid to the touch, but his embrace was perfectly confident as ever.

At some point, the Nord's voice murmured into her ear, "I'm not going to try and get in Sovngarde, if that's what you're thinking. You're down _here_."

Then he leaned back away, and put his helmet back on without waiting for a reply. The moment was past. There was nothing to do but move forward.

Zaryth swallowed, then nodded and made herself speak up. "Are you ready?"

Thorald glanced back at the others behind him, then focused on the open pit ahead. "I'm ready. Throw it."

It all came down to one little motion, as quick and effortless as dropping a pebble in a pond. Zaryth lobbed her vial forward gently, so it would land on the purple field where it began right in front of Thorald's feet.

There was a sharp shattering noise as the vial disintegrated into nothingness. For a tiny split second, the silvery essence hung in the air as an unsupported mass, just a hairsbreadth above the field's surface. Then it all fell down into place.

The point of impact suddenly flashed blindingly white. Then a thundering, rippling wave of light spread out across the entire field, before contracting on the one point, and burning away a swathe of the purple barrier into thin air, leaving a great vaguely-circular hole with ragged flickering borders. It was definitely large enough for Thorald to jump through.

And that was what he did, straight onto the wooden platform below. He landed perfectly silently on his feet, then started running down the ramp. That was it. He was inside the pit. Saarthal was his to explore.

The next Black Gear in line—one of the twins, if Zaryth recalled—began to move up, but it was already too late. The source of the field hadn't been disrupted. It was already sending glowing threads of energy across the gap, sprouting and spreading every which way, sealing the all-destroying barrier anew.

As the threads began to seal, Zaryth was seized by another urge. But this one didn't tell her to try to follow through. Thorald was already making his way into the pit, the barrier was closing, this was her last chance—this was her last chance to say anything, do anything—

She called out after him, "I love you!"

An instant later, the barrier closed completely, and it was back to its flawless purple tint.

Thorald stopped where he was, and turned to look back up at her. His visor betrayed no expression, no more than ever. And if he was saying anything, it was inaudible through the barrier. But he looked up at her for a moment, and then turned back to continue his path through the pit, towards the heavy iron doors to the inner ruin.

Zaryth's breath had seized in her throat. She took a halting step away from the pit, then another. What had she just let go of?

A cool, thickly-armored hand laid on her shoulder. One of the Black Gears. Echallos, actually. He'd come up to stand beside her, and was… holding onto her.

"Let's go," he said gently. "He's in good hands."

Behind them, Galurag was issuing some orders, telling people to move back to some earlier spot. They'd all be leaving here soon. In fact, the moment, Zaryth thought that, the Breton started ushering her along, bringing her away from the excavation site. Away from Thorald, away to safety.

But he was in good hands. That thought was still lingering. As she walked with the group, Zaryth asked, "Whose are those?"

Echallos laughed aloud. "Well, his own, of course. I've seen the man at his lowest, and he was still a terror then. Just wait till he goes in with something to fight for."


	56. Ria 10

Middas, 12:43 PM, 76th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Dragonsreach Great Porch

The two dragons were waiting at the far end of the porch, just as expected. They had landed side by side on the semicircular balcony at the porch's far end. That put them right in the midday sunlight. Their scales were shining beautifully in it. It was a magnificent sight to be greeted by.

Ria entered the porch with Erik, Njada and Athis all behind her. Two dragons, four Companions. That was the plan. They were all about to go off to Shor's Stone, to confront whatever was awaiting them at the site of their god's reckoning. And the sight of the dragons at the far end of the porch couldn't have been more fitting. This was the day of immortals.

She really hoped these dragons wouldn't take offense at her choice of armor. Dammit, how hadn't she thought of that before now? Anytime, maybe, before actually looking at the dragons right there on the porch? She'd be lucky if they didn't bite her head off for it.

In any case, she recognized the dragon on the left. That one was Odahviing. There was no mistaking his scale pattern. It was a brilliant, flaring crimson, all the more beautiful for being seen against the blue skies beyond. But the other wasn't one she recognized. Not Nosqoriik, definitely. Where Odahviing was red and gray, this one was green and gold.

That made sense enough. There were more than two dragons in the world. Well, three, counting Alduin. But that didn't really count. There were more than two friendly dragons in the world.

"Well, then," Athis murmured behind her. "That's new."

"I'm glad they're on our side," Njada said.

Ria ignored that for now. She was crossing the length of the porch at a brisk striding pace. This was no time for an idle stroll.

"Odahviing," she called out brightly as she approached. "I see you brought a friend!"

The green-and-gold dragon responded first. He opened his mouth and spoke in a predictably big booming rumble. "I am Ziilahmaar. I have come forth from my place of observation to offer my aid in this time of need, once again."

There were harder names to pronounce, Ria thought. She lowered her voice somewhat as she came closer. "Again? You've done this before?"

"Only once," Ziilahmaar replied.

Then Odahviing cut in. "Ria, is that armor made of the bones of a dragon?"

She tried not to really react at all, but the question still made her pause a little. This wasn't easy to talk about here. She wanted to pull her visor down so they wouldn't see her face. And then maybe turn her head so she wouldn't see theirs. "Yes. Yes, it is. Uh… We had Mirmulnir's bones here ever since the Dragonborn defeated him, so…"

"Good," Ziilahmaar said, very abruptly. "Mirmulnir was the most insufferable dovah of us all. Uncaring for others, unconcerned with loyalty. He fled the battlefields of the war with the mortals, and hid in fear until Alduin's return. Seeing his remains adorning your body gives me only satisfaction."

Odahviing changed the subject just as quickly. "We may discuss these matters at a later time. You must come with us to Northwind Summit. Events move quickly towards their final resolution."

Northwind Summit. The mountaintop for which Shor's Stone had been named. Farengar had been doing some reading about it on the Companions' behalf. Apparently, it was only safely accessible by an underground passage up through the mountain. The locals had set up a mining operation inside it at some point. That must have been going splendidly right now.

It was also entirely irrelevant, because climbing mountains was for people who couldn't fly.

"Agreed." Ria nodded, and gestured for Erik to follow her. She had a feeling this would be much easier than that time on the Throat of the World. For one thing, this time she wasn't half-frozen and half-soaked.

Ziilahmaar commented, "Perhaps Mirmulnir avoided death for so long because he knew Alduin would refuse to raise him."

Meanwhile, Athis and Njada were standing there staring at the green dragon with their mouths open. This must have been an awe-striking experience for them, really. Neither of them had ever been anywhere near a dragon of any sort before.

And Ria and Erik had now met three. At some point, they'd have to give all the other Companions a chance to talk with their big winged friends here.

It was simple business to climb up on Odahviing's back. The dragon lowered himself to the stone tiles of the porch, and Ria and her Shield-Brother climbed up on top from opposite sides. That left Athis, Njada and Ziilahmaar to follow by example. Which they did, however hesitantly and clumsily.

Once Ria was securely on top in front of Erik, she called over, "Hey, Ziilahmaar. Who'd you do this for last time?"

The dragon looked up at her slowly. "It was one of the Dragonborn's soldiers. I believe his name was Thorald."

At that moment, Odahviing pushed himself off the balcony, and they were suddenly in the air. There was nothing to do but try to hold on.

The drop beyond the porch balcony was like going off a mountainside cliff. In those first few seconds, they went from being about ten feet up to being over a hundred. Ria's eyes widened at the sight. If she hadn't been holding on tight before, she sure was now.

But Odahviing seemed to be well aware of his passengers' limits. He turned and flew on a slow, banking circle around Dragonsreach, making the entire city of Whiterun turn beneath them, until Ziilahmaar had joined them in the air. Then he broke off from the circling and flew due southeast.

It looked like they'd be passing the Throat of the World by its northern side. And that made sense. Whiterun was already at the mountain's northwest. But it also looked like they'd be coming very, very close by it. This must have been the closest the dragons could get to a straight line. Ria tried to keep her mind on those sorts of things, so she didn't have to think about how high they were above the ground right now.

The flight went by in total silence. Or, not really total silence—they were being blasted by a constant gale of deafening wind, just by riding on top of Odahviing at his usual speed. But they definitely weren't saying anything. And what was there to say, anyway? They were off to a battle whose stakes were higher than they could even understand.

Ria didn't even know whether to be afraid. She supposed she would have that question answered for her soon enough.

And so the flight did go by. The White River ran along them, far below through the plains of Whiterun Hold, and the Throat of the World turned ever so slightly as they came up close to its base. After some time—probably less than an hour, the sun was still high in the sky, Ria didn't even know—the river went between a pair of ancient stone towers, connected by a distinctive single-pillared bridge. And afterward was a drop. A huge waterfall down a sheer cliff, marking the transition to Eastmarch. And the sprawling caldera was indeed visible beyond.

These were the Valtheim Towers. Ria had seen them before, but never from the air. They were forlorn, broken things, probably half as tall as they'd once been. But they still stood tall over the river, despite seeing so many centuries pass them by. They seemed just as magnificent from up here.

She was a little disappointed that she couldn't see any netches out in Eastmarch from here. Maybe if there'd been one the size of a small mountain. That would've done it.

It was as they passed these towers by that Odahviing and Ziilahmaar took a turn in their path. They were at the base of the Throat of the World now. It was seemingly a straight line upward from here to its peak. The dragons both banked gently to the right, and a new path emerged into view. They weren't going straight into Eastmarch—they were just barely crossing over its southwest corner, and then passing right back up into the Rift.

But there was still a brief time when they were flying over the low, flat expanse of Eastmarch's springs. The dragons didn't bother to change their altitude for it. Ria was just suddenly half a mile higher above the ground than before. She felt like the ground had just dropped out from under her feet. Except that she was still up here, perfectly safe and sound, on Odahviing's back. But she still felt like her heart was going to turn to ice.

Then she saw what was waiting for them in the Rift, and her heart just about did freeze for real.

It was directly ahead, far in the distance, all the way out on the horizon. There was a massive, pillar-like cloud, extending up into the sky like a column of smoke, from atop one of the distant mountaintops. The cloud was pure black. It stuck into the sky all by itself, like a splinter.

"Northwind Summit," Ria said aloud.

"He is there already," Odahviing replied, over the noise of the wind. "We must be swift."

Ria glanced sideways at Ziilahmaar. He was flying perfectly parallel to them, about fifty feet off to their left. Njada and Athis were there on his back, but their faces weren't really visible at this distance. That was too bad. Ria might've enjoyed their expressions right then.

More time passed by. The low ground of Eastmarch's caldera soon gave way to a forested incline, laden with cliffsides and switchbacks and dangerous drops as far as the eye could see. The dragons still didn't have to adjust their altitude. They had started out high up enough that the ground only came up to a hundred feet or so below.

And the whole time, the black cloud stood there on the horizon, growing imperceptibly larger with every minute of approach. It was, indeed, on a mountaintop, just as forested as everything else around here. And it quickly became apparent that it was taking up the mountain's entire upper half. The cloud must have been a couple of miles wide, to be that all-encompassing.

There was plenty of time to think about how to handle this. Ria was already fairly certain they wouldn't be able to land on the mountaintop proper. But maybe they'd be able to use the normal route instead.

As they came closer, and the incline leveled out into big leafy forests below, the cloud in the distance grew more and more visibly detailed. It wasn't just a static pillar over the mountain. It was a twisting writhing mass of raging black plumes, unnaturally confined to a cylindrical shape. And the entire thing was absolutely vast. It extended into the sky maybe three or four times as high as the mountain beneath. Ria had a feeling the top of it wasn't any safer to enter than the rest.

Actually, she had a feeling that this was all a terrible idea. If it weren't for the weapon hanging from her belt, she would've felt like she simply didn't belong here. But here she was, alongside her Shield-Siblings, and they were going to do this.

Whatever 'this' meant. If Alduin had already gotten his hands on the Heart of Lorkhan, there would be nothing they _could_ do.

There was a new sound on the air. It was hard to tell what it was, at first. Some kind of faint, constant noise, barely audible over all the wind rushing by. But with the passing minutes, it became more and more pronounced, until there was no mistaking it. She was hearing the cloud itself. It was rumbling constantly, like thunder. Or maybe like an earthquake.

When they were about two miles from the base of the mountain, Ziilahmaar called out, "Odahviing! Do you feel it?"

"I do, Ziilahmaar!" The red dragon promptly began to slow down, and descend in altitude. The treetops of the forest were coming up closer.

Ria shouted, "What?! What is it?" After a couple seconds of no reply: "Talk to me, Odahviing!"

"Alduin is… disrupting our link to the flow of Time," he replied, his voice filled with strain. "We cannot come close, or else, risk falling out of existence."

Erik asked, "What about us?"

Before replying, Odahviing slowed to a gradual halt, then landed gently on an open path through the trees. A road, leading up to the mountain. Far from the worst place to land, really. "You are not bound to the currents of Time as we are," he said.

Ziilahmaar landed beside him a moment later, with a low, rumbling growl of discomfort. Athis and Njada were all too eager to jump off him.

"You must find your way up the mountainside," Odahviing continued. "Tread with care. Alduin has transcended his role as the World-Eater. He will fight you with terrible cunning."

"Whatever you say," Ria grunted, before climbing down from the dragon's back herself. It felt good to put her feet on solid ground again, she could say that much.

Erik followed her down a moment later. He was already looking up at the towering black cloud in the sky. "Well, this is going to be, uh…"

Odahviing and Ziilahmaar didn't wait around for any farewells. They just suddenly took to the air, one after another, and started flying off in the direction they'd come. That disruption stuff must have been really hurting them.

But there was nothing for the Companions to do now but proceed as they could. Ria gave Erik a brief look over, then went to check on Athis and Njada.

Naturally, the two of them were standing there with their mouths open again. Just staring at the big rumbling cloud, of course.

"Come on," Ria said. "He's not going to wait for us."

Just to make the point clearer, she proceeded to lower her visor, draw Selthrei from its sheath, and start walking up the path to the mountain. She left the others to follow behind her.

The road was on a fairly pronounced incline, and Ria was walking uphill. She could feel the warmth of her own breath beneath the steel visor. But even with all this armor on, she doubted she'd even break a sweat on this walk. Everything on her person was just so covered in magical enchants. She could probably have climbed the outside of the entire mountain in this armor, in the fashion of the Skybound Watch shortcut, without even breaking much of a sweat. That was the kind of equipment she was bringing with her today.

A lot of people had wanted her to succeed today. Personally, she would've preferred if the others had gotten the fancy priceless dragon armor first.

After a few minutes' walking, the road's destination became visible. It wasn't a very grand threshold or anything. Just a small doorway set in the mountainside. Probably one of those wooden double doors, like Nords liked to put at the entrances of mines. There was no way this was for any passage but the one they needed to get through.

"This is such an obvious trap," Erik said.

"Agreed," replied Athis, as he walked up by Ria's side. "Listen… Are you certain this is a good idea? I know we need to get up there, but…"

Ria gave it a few seconds' thought. But she didn't stop walking. "To be honest? … No, I'm not certain. But we're out of options, and out of time."

Njada asked, "What's our plan, then?"

This time, Ria didn't have to think before answering. "Easy. Send me in first."

With that, she sped up to a jogging pace, and focused on the doors. Those were either locked, unlocked or trapped. And normally, she might have been inclined to try to enter quietly, to maintain the element of surprise—but if Alduin had just fended off Odahviing and Ziilahmaar, that was meaningless anyway.

So as she ran ahead, Ria threw Selthrei straight at the doors. It stopped with its blade buried deep in the wood. She closed her fist only a split second later.

The burst of lightning was enough to tear the doors to blackened splintered shreds. There was nothing left afterward but an empty doorway to a dark interior. Ria summoned her weapon back into her hand as she came close to the threshold. This would be the part where Alduin would fight back.

Well, unless he planned on letting Ria get inside a bit more, and then closing the way off behind her and keeping her Shield-Siblings out of the fight. That was possible too.

She wondered if now was the time to be afraid. It probably was, by this point.

The inside of the tunnel seemed to be empty. It was a crudely carved thing, with a messy dirt-and-gravel floor and bare rock walls. A few torches stood here and there, illuminating it with dim orange light. The air inside smelled like dirt. And death. It absolutely smelled like dead things in here.

If Ria had been unsure about this being the right tunnel, she had all the proof she needed right there. She walked in with her sword up on guard, scanning ahead as best she could through her visor.

The tunnel opened up to a large open chamber, just as rough as the opening tunnel, but with wooden scaffolding and platforms all around the walls. The ramps led up from the left wall and turned out of sight, continuing at some higher place. But it was totally empty in here. And besides some faint noise from the torches, it was as silent as the grave. Which certainly fit the context, but this was… this was wrong. There were supposed to be enemies in here.

Then, all of the sudden, out of nowhere, a guttural undead voice spoke aloud: "The prized champion of Shor."

Ria whirled around with her sword leading the way. There was nothing behind her but the tunnel entrance. Nothing anywhere in the room. Just to make sure no one was invisibly in here, she raised her sword In the air and flashed a brief burst of all-reaching lightning through the room. It singed some of the scaffolding a little, but that was it.

The voice seemed to be coming from the ground beneath her. It must have been being sent magically from some other location. It kept talking as though she hadn't done anything. "Late is the hour in which you have come to save your master. Perhaps you were taking the time to amass some more convenient gifts from those who are better than you?"

"Shut up and fight me," Ria called out to nowhere in particular, before shouting down the tunnel entrance, "Come inside, we're in for a warm welcome!"

"You have brought your Companions to join you in death," the undead voice said. "Shor must appreciate how quickly your guild has been filling the halls of Sovngarde of late."

Apparently, the mythical World-Eater wasn't above petty taunting. There wasn't much to do but wait for the others to come in. Ria didn't want to start going up the ramp before they'd even gotten inside.

But she didn't have to wait long. Erik appeared in the tunnel only a few seconds later, followed closely by Athis and Njada. They all had their weapons drawn.

"Welcome to the mine," Ria waved politely to them with her free hand. It probably looked a little silly with the gauntlet on.

Erik scanned all around the room, squinting suspiciously, before focusing back on Ria. "What _is_ this?"

"A mine, obviously," Athis said as he walked out around Erik. "Right?"

Ria never got to reply to that. She was interrupted by the sound of boots sprinting on wooden boards above her.

She had just enough time to look up and see a dark-armored figure jumping off the platform, straight down on top of her head. The last thing she saw of it was a glimpse of two glowing red eyes.

The draugr's boots came smashing down on her shoulders, right between the pauldrons. It was unstoppable. She collapsed forwards onto the ground, just barely managing to hold onto Selthrei, but it didn't matter because the draugr was standing on her back.

Gods, she couldn't breathe. Her chin was in the dirt, her ribcage was getting crushed—this armor wasn't enough, she was getting crushed anyway. This wasn't going quite how she'd hoped.

Above her, the draugr's voice shouted, " _Fus… ro DAH!_ ", and a crack of thunder reverberated through the chamber. It was so loud, Ria had no idea what had come of it. She just reached up behind her back with Selthrei, as best as she could with this heavy armor on, with all the weight standing on her—she realized the draugr was down on one knee, pinning her to the ground with its lower leg. She just had to reach back there and hit something.

Her sword hand caught in a painfully tight grip. The draugr had stopped her swing halfway.

She couldn't even use her lightning in here, could she? Not in an area burst. It would hit her Shield-Siblings. Wherever they were.

Ria turned her head to the side, towards the cave entrance. Athis and Njada were on their backs. Erik was already getting up, struggling to his feet, holding tightly onto his sword.

Then, all of a sudden, he yelled, "Ria, watch out!"

There was no real line of thought. She just twisted herself to the side as hard as she could. And a split second later, a sword blade plunged into the earth right across the side of her neck. It grazed hard against the Skyforge steel mail in the way.

She could still see Erik. He was doing something with his sword. Adjusting his grip, twirling his sword the other way, holding it up like a javelin—and then it left his hand. He'd just thrown it.

The weapon went out of Ria's sight quickly. But she heard the blade thud into something above her, and the draugr rolled off of her a moment later. She wasted no time in pushing herself back to her feet.

The sword had hit the draugr right in the side of the ribcage, under the arm, where there wasn't any armor. Ria took the liberty of pulling the thing out and tossing it back to Erik. He caught it effortlessly by the blade, no problem there, and returned it to his grip.

By this point, Athis and Njada had gotten back up as well. Njada said, "That couldn't have been the only one."

"Well, let's not wait for them," Ria grunted. Her neck ached a little where that sword had run by it.

Then she took a closer look at Njada. She was looking awfully dark right then—

"Get down!"

Njada instantly crouched down and raised her shield over her shoulder, protecting her back. The draugr behind her swung its battle-axe down through the air at the exact same moment. The head just barely glanced off the shield's rim.

Ria just pointed Selthrei at the undead creature's face, and let loose with a bolt of lightning. It actually managed to take the bolt with the middle of its axe, in a perfectly precise block. But the haft still exploded apart. Splinters went everywhere. Some of the lightning got through anyway.

That definitely stunned it for a second, at least.

"Son of a bitch," Athis spat. "They were hiding out front too!"

Njada came up and around with a devastating uppercut of her shield. That steel rim caught the draugr right in the chin. There was a sickening crack of metal on bone. Then she put her sword through the thing's exposed throat, before it could lower its head again. "Aye, tell me something I don't know!"

There were more draugr in the tunnel after it. But Ria couldn't pay attention to those right now. Footsteps were sounding on the boards above. More footsteps. Lots of footsteps. She had about one second to get ready for them.

Naturally, she spent that second running away from the scaffolding, towards the far side of the chamber. She wasn't getting jumped on again.

The first draugr to come down was a big hulk of a warrior, probably once bearded, with a fearsome war hammer in both hands. It stared at Ria with its expressionless red eyes for a moment, then began to close in.

At the same moment, Erik joined her side. The other two Companions were busy fighting things off already. This was a workable tactic. One pair of Shield-Siblings for each entry route. Assuming there weren't any draugr hiding under the ground in here, that would work just fine.

Ria brought Selthrei up for another strike. But the draugr cut in, " _Fus!_ ", and a big bluish wave of energy shoved her back hard. She barely even saw the hammer coming in.

Her head was shoved hard to the side by a sudden, huge downward impact. It felt like being landed on all over again, except this time focused all on her helmet. A loud scraping sound traveled down past her left ear. Then the hammer caught on the ridge of her pauldron, and stayed in place.

That didn't even hurt. It'd just pushed her around a bunch.

Erik helpfully brought his sword down on the red draugr's right arm, directly on the elbow joint. Everything below it was instantly cut clean off. There was just a blackened stump left on.

Oddly, the severed limb stayed attached to the hammer. The hand just hadn't let go. Ria pondered that as she stabbed the draugr up through the bottom of the ribs, and let off a bolt of lightning in there just to be sure. She had just enough time to pull her blade free in time for the next two draugr.

The next two? When had they come in?

Ria and Erik closed in at the same time. The left draugr had a fearsome ancient greatsword, the right draugr an axe and shield. Ria went for the one on the right. It was just nearer by.

Her first move was a lightning attack to the legs. The draugr jumped out of the way of the bolt, leaving it to blast a line of gravel off the ground. Ria followed it up with a lunging stab, which the draugr deflected with its shield—and suddenly leapt past with its axe outstretched. All she had time to think was that this draugr was far too fast.

The strike came down hard on top of her helmet. She felt the impact, just like before, but it still didn't do anything. The metal edge just ran harmlessly down her visor, right past her eyes, and fell back away. In that same span of time, Ria managed to bring her sword back around from the missed thrust, and try again with an upward stab. This time, it hit the shield straight on, and actually got stuck in the wood. Dammit. That wasn't right at all.

She let off another lightning bolt, just for opportunity's sake. But the draugr had already wrenched its shield aside, and the lightning struck the wall above the far tunnel instead. Which was where her Shield-Siblings were holding off the other attack. That was close.

From somewhere over there, Athis' voice shouted, "Careful! We're not storm atronachs here!"

Another draugr landed on the ground behind Ria. She looked just long enough to see that it had a sword too. But her own was still stuck. It was unusable.

Time for a change of plans. Ria kicked the axe-wielding draugr hard in the knee, and let go of her sword entirely. While it was recovering, she used her free right hand to grab onto her left bracer, where a sleek metal knob was set into the upper plating. She only had to give it one firm twist.

Three shining steel hooks sprang out from the bracer's outer edge. Three thick, angular, blade-like prongs, in a neat row, each about an inch long. Compliments of Farengar helping design the suit. They'd taken less than half a second to deploy.

She turned around just in time to see the sword-wielding draugr taking a stab at her lower back.

All it took was a swift, downward motion of her left fist, like a punch. The blackened ancient sword ran straight across her bracer, and promptly got itself stuck under the middle hook. For a split second, the draugr just stared down at its weapon, visibly confused—and for a creature with no facial expressions, that really was a feat.

Ria threw a dragonbone-knuckled punch into the draugr's lipless jaw, then twisted her whole body back away. The sword wrenched out of the draugr's hands and flew out over the ground.

That was just in time for the axe-wielding draugr to strike again. It had pried Selthrei free from its shield, and tossed the sword under the wooden scaffolding nearby. Now it was coming in with its axe in another vertical strike, holding its shield out to protect its arm.

Ria jumped to the draugr's right, just enough to let the axe strike glance off her shoulder. The shield wasn't protecting it on this side. As she moved, she summoned Selthrei back into her hand, and brought it around in an upward chop, right into the draugr's axe arm.

The arm came right off. Selthrei always did cut things cleanly. Ria followed it up with a lunging slash to the back of the neck. It wasn't with quite enough force to take the thing's head off. But it sure did break the bone.

Then, above the din of the fighting, she heard a singularly ominous sound.

" _Fus…_ "

It was the draugr she'd disarmed. It was standing there, fists at its sides, taking a deep breath in. For lack of anything faster, Ria flung her sword at the thing's face. The blade shot unerringly forward and skewered it right through the mouth.

Just a couple yards away, Erik was still fighting his greatsword-wielding draugr. Ria turned in time to see Erik stab the draugr through the belly, just above the hip—only for the draugr to completely ignore the injury, and smash him in the face with the pommel of its greatsword. It managed to get right through the central gap in Erik's visor.

Ria winced. That looked like it hurt.

The draugr followed it up with a kick that sent Erik flat on his back. Now it was raising its sword up high, preparing for a finishing strike, even with the steel blade still stuck through its middle. Nothing seemed to deter these things. It was madness.

Again, Ria had to be fast. Selthrei would take a second or so to summon, and she didn't have a second. So as the draugr raised its sword, she did the sensible thing, and jumped up behind it to grab the overhead blade in both hands.

It was surprisingly easy to pry free. She had such better leverage, with her hands farther apart on the weapon. With just one good pull, the draugr was disarmed.

Ria dropped her left hand a little farther down towards the end of the blade, nearer by her right. This would do.

Before the draugr could even turn around, she had smashed the guard of its sword into the side of its head. No helmet on this one, just an exposed head. That one strike was enough to drop it to its knees. Ria followed it up with a strike to the other side, and then a third, downward swing at the top. She felt the bone break under the last hit. The draugr fell instantly.

Erik was already back up and drinking a healing potion. There was a lot of blood on his face. Must've gotten him in the nose. Ria dropped the greatsword and summoned Selthrei without really thinking about it. Pulled Erik's sword free, held it out to him. He took it with an appreciative nod.

Over by the tunnel entrance, the draugr were still fighting. Athis and Njada seemed to be doing well enough for themselves. A few new corpses littered the ground by them. At the moment, they were doubling up on a draugr, guiding it out into the room so they could outflank it.

Ria was about to go over and help, when something huge slammed into her back.

It was like nothing she'd felt before. The sheer force sent her sprawling on her chest once again. Her sword left her hand. It felt like something had hit her between the shoulder blades, but… not quite? Her armor had absorbed the impact.

That hadn't been a shout. Maybe a very heavy war hammer. Ria groaned and started laboriously pushing herself back up.

Sure enough, Erik was locked in a grapple with a hammer-wielding draugr. This felt like a good time to summon Selthrei. But Ria's head wasn't feeling right. Everything seemed a little swimmy. Something about that impact must have really jolted her. She had to take a second, here.

Athis closed in on his draugr from behind. He had daggers in both hands, ready to strike. But the draugr elbowed him in the ribs, then struck him in the jaw and kicked him back. That put him on the floor too. Ria appreciated the solidarity, at least.

Still, that left the draugr open for Njada to chop its head off, in true Companion fashion. But there was one more of the undead creatures standing in the doorway, ready to replace the last one. It seemed to be unarmed.

Ria focused on summoning Selthrei. She could bring it back to her hand now, she was sure. Njada obviously had this under control, but maybe Erik didn't. That grapple couldn't go on forever.

Njada turned to face the tunnel entrance, her shield up in front, and her sword aimed over it, ready to strike. This wouldn't take long. At worst, the draugr would use some shout or other, and Ria would have to step in.

But the draugr spoke aloud in its guttural undead voice: "Let's settle this like true Nords!"

It then proceeded to step back away from Njada, and start moving around in place. Or, not moving. It was _dancing_. Not only that, it was dancing very well. Its boots were stomping and scraping rhythmically on the ground, audible even from over here. It sounded surprisingly nice.

Njada made a perplexed noise. She had her guard up still, but she was just staring. "Uh… What is this?"

Ria finished summoning her sword, and struggled back up to her feet. She didn't have time for this. The Heart of Lorkhan was still waiting for them.

Then, with no warning at all, Erik's draugr shoved him aside, drew a dagger from its belt, and threw it into the nape of Njada's neck.

It was like the flow of Time had frozen. Ria stared, just stared in silence, as Njada fell to her knees. The handle of the dagger was sticking out of her Shield-Sister's neck, sticking out of her body, while the blade was buried deep within. It had been a perfect throw. A perfect kill.

Athis screamed something out loud.

Ria blasted the unarmed draugr with a bolt of lightning. It fell to the ground. She wasn't even thinking. She had to think, but she wasn't thinking.

Erik had used the moment of distraction to stab his opponent up through the chest. But it was too late. Njada was falling limply to the ground. Falling to the ground, never to get back up.

More draugr were appearing in the tunnel. Footsteps were audible above. More of them, so many more. They were all going to die in here.

"Let's move!" Ria shouted at the top of her lungs. "Up the ramp, now!"

Another draugr was jumping down to the ground. Ria struck it with another bolt of lightning, midair. It landed on its front, and stayed there. Then she threw Selthrei down at the tunnel entrance, where the draugr were emerging, and closed her fist.

She didn't even bother to look at the result. She was already running for the ramp. That had just been to give Athis enough time to follow them out.

Erik was right at her side. They bounded up the old wooden ramps and platforms, one after another, as the draugr poured in from wherever they were coming. One of them confronted Ria right on the second ramp. She charged into it shoulder-first, then grabbed it by the back and hurled it over the edge behind her.

It landed just by Athis. Good, he was following along. They would need him soon. Ria couldn't do this all alone. They had to keep each other alive.

She waited just long enough for the dark elf to catch up. Two more draugr came at her from up above, in that time. This time, she summoned Selthrei as they approached, and swiped the blade through the air in front of her. A crescent of lightning spread out and hit both of them at once. That was enough for Ria and Erik to finish them both off, one draugr each.

They had to keep fighting. This was no time to think. Ria couldn't think. They were down to three Companions. They had to fight.

Once they were together again, Ria continued the path up the ramp. It led to a sort of ledge at the top of the room, and then another tunnel, wide and rectangular, held up with more wooden beams. She ignored everything but the path ahead. More draugr were coming. There was no telling how many of them were here, but Ria couldn't wait for them to attack. None of them could.

Another draugr appeared around the next corner. This one had a pale blue spell aura in both hands. Before they could get even close to it, it sent a huge white cloud of frost down the tunnel, steadily coating everything around it in ice.

Ria just swiped her sword from left to right again. Another crescent came forth and dissipated the spell halfway. Their advance continued at a fast walking pace.

The draugr drew a mace from its belt, and began to walk down towards them in kind. Its other hand still had a spell aura on. It raised that hand first—and then, all of a sudden, a sword flew past Ria's shoulder and bounced off the thing's ancient breastplate.

That was Erik. He'd just thrown his sword, again.

Ria turned and gave him a glance through her visor. "Erik. Just because I can throw _mine—_ "

At that moment, the draugr met them, with a stream of stinging frost magic and an overhead mace strike. Ria charged straight in and slammed their assailant back with her left shoulder, before turning and slicing its neck open in the same move. Not much of a challenge.

Erik quickly went and picked his sword back up. Then he glanced behind them and cried, "Athis, look out!"

The dark elf leapt forwards onto the ground without looking, like he was supposed to. There was a draugr right behind him. In fact, there were a _few_ draugr behind him.

Ria turned and threw Selthrei right at the first one in line. A direct hit, as always. She waited just long enough for Athis to scramble out of the way, and then closed her fist.

The blast of lightning didn't just tear apart the draugr nearby. It hit all the scaffolding, too. And a moment later, with an ear-splitting grinding crash, the ceiling down there promptly caved in on them. It looked unreal. A whole bunch of dirt and rocks poured down, and… that was it. The tunnel behind them was suddenly a dead end.

That was a fast cave-in. Ria was sort of surprised. Maybe that was saying something.

Athis had just barely managed to get out of the way. He pushed himself back up to his feet and gave Ria a rueful half-smile. "Guess we won't have to deal with them from _that_ direction."

"That's true, we…" She started to reply, but then she just stopped again. This was horrible. They'd lost Njada just now, and they didn't even have time to think anything about it.

"Come on," Erik said suddenly. "More are coming. We're cornered down here."

Ria nodded silently, summoned her weapon again, and gestured for Athis to follow. She led the way like before, but now at a more controlled pace. They didn't have to flee anything. They just had to fight through whatever was waiting for them.

But nothing confronted them. They turned the corner, and headed on up an empty, inclined tunnel, which turned another corner, and another. It seemed to be going in a sort of spiraling pattern. Everything was completely silent, except for their own footfalls.

Then, after the third corner, the directionless undead voice returned.

"I almost miss my old form. I spent quite a while in Sovngarde, using it as my hunting ground. Your precious Nord warriors spent their afterlives in my belly. I would have sucked down the strands of Njada's future like any other. It's almost a pity that I'll have to settle for simply killing you all."

This gods-damned voice. Ria gritted her teeth and kept going. She didn't even have anything to say to Alduin anymore. She was just waiting to get to kill something.

And the voice just kept going. "Then again, if you decide you'd like to beg—"

Something snagged on Ria's foot. Like a rope snare. She never even saw what it was. But she felt it, and it was… actually, not a snare. That was a tripwire.

There was a loud metallic noise as some mechanism released. Then the scaffolding above them dropped open.

Ria had just enough time to jump towards the left wall. Then an impossible force crashed down on her. The noise was so loud, she couldn't think. She was in pain. She couldn't control her own motions. Everything was broken. Everything…

Her ears were ringing. That was bad. She pushed herself back up slowly. Nothing made sense right now. But she had a feeling she was about to be attacked.

Somewhere, Alduin's voice said, "You're all very easily distracted, aren't you?"

Ria's left bracer wasn't the only one to have interesting things on it. The right one had a small, hinged steel square on the inner forearm, with a dwarven metal button underneath. She flipped the steel cap open with her thumb, just long enough to press the button once.

All of the pain in her body—from the hammer to her back, from the frost magic, from the boulders—instantly went away in a rush of mellow warmth. Supposedly, this was based on the Black Machine's designs. Ria just appreciated not having to mess with bottles for her healing potions now.

"Erik?" She called out to the tunnel, nowhere in particular. There were so many boulders in here, she couldn't even tell where the others were. "Athis? Where are you?"

"I'm here, Ria," Erik called back shakily, from somewhere farther down the tunnel. "I think my arm's broken. Give me a minute."

At that moment, three draugr came around the next corner. Ria extracted herself from the boulders as quickly as she could. This wasn't something she wanted to mess with right now.

Selthrei wasn't in her hand anymore. She summoned it back just as the middle draugr let off a shout. There was just barely enough time to swipe the wall of force away. It still kicked up a whole lot of dirt at her. Distracting.

Naturally, she retaliated by throwing Selthrei right at the middle draugr. No lightning burst this time. It wasn't worth the risk of a cave-in _ahead_ of them. But it still punched straight through the draugr's chest, and extinguished the light in its eyes before it could even begin to fall—in other words, it hit its target like normal.

The other two didn't hesitate to come down at her. They were already preparing to attack. One had a war hammer, which was already bothering her. The other had just a sword. She wondered what the odds were that one of these draugr would end up killing her. Probably higher than she'd have liked.

Of course, this wasn't helped by the fact that Selthrei was twenty feet away.

The sword-wielding draugr came in first, with a quick downward swing. More of a feint. Ria just stepped back away from it. But the draugr was obviously prepared for that, and followed it up by reaching out and closing its hand around Ria's neck.

That was definitely new.

Ria tucked her chin down on reflex, trying to lessen the pressure on her throat. Then she put her right hand on the draugr's wrist, and brought her left arm up just in time to block the next sword strike. It caught in the lower hook on her bracer, and with a little pressure on the blade, stayed there securely. But she still had a draugr trying to strangle her. She could barely breathe right now. Even with all the armor in the way, this was still hurting.

This thing was right up in her face. It looked repulsive. Its red eyes were just staring right into her. And it was still trying to maneuver its sword down into her neck, despite the blade being trapped.

She'd been planning on summoning Selthrei again for this. But there was no time. The other draugr was already coming around behind her with its hammer up. It was going to attack her. It was going to do it right now.

Ria let go with her hand, only to raise it up high and twist her whole body away. The draugr lost hold of both its sword and her neck. She pulled the dark steel weapon off her arm just in time to parry the incoming war hammer with it. And in the same motion, she spun back around and chopped the blade hard into the first draugr's neck.

As she came around once again, she finally called Selthrei back to her hand. The draugr was preparing for another strike. Maybe she could parry this one too, if her weapon came back to her quickly enough. Or she could just grab the hammer by the haft right now.

She ended up doing neither. The draugr just dropped its hammer and fell limply onto its front. A feathered arrow was sticking out of its back.

Erik was standing upright amid the boulders, his recurve bow in his hand. He shrugged innocently. "Didn't feel like throwing the sword again."

Ria nodded slowly. They were probably going to be attacked again in a matter of seconds. But, first things first. "Is Athis still with us?"

The Nord shook his head grimly. That wasn't much of a surprise. "It's just the two of us now."

"How's your arm?"

"Fine, now. Healing potion." He sighed and started stepping through the rocks, shouldering his bow and switching back to the sword. "We need to keep moving. Just… keep me alive, all right?"

"Great idea." There wasn't much more to say than that. Ria continued up the tunnel with her sword at the ready. But she wasn't sure if she'd need it anymore. They weren't getting attacked much at this point.

Maybe Alduin had left the majority of his force down outside the tunnel. That'd mean they'd cut most of it off now.

Probably not. That would've been too lucky.

The two of them walked ahead in silence for a little while. They were just waiting for Alduin's next move, and it wasn't coming. No doubt, something was waiting for them somewhere, but… it just wasn't here. There was nothing to do but carry onward.

As they did, the rumbling noise of the cloud pillar became audible once again. It was barely a whisper at first, but soon enough it was unmistakable. Ria couldn't do much besides try to ignore it. But there was a lot she was trying to ignore right now. If she got too distracted by the feeling she was having—the one where her heart was in her throat, and she could barely keep these thoughts in one piece—it would only end with her joining her friends in Sovngarde.

She didn't say anything now. Neither did Erik. They just kept walking.

Eventually, the tunnel straightened out into a single, straight ramp, with some kind of arch at the end. It wasn't short at all. And Ria wasn't looking forward to climbing it. Her legs were already burning, even with the enchants on her gear keeping her going. This was just a lot of climbing, and she did have heavy armor on.

"I think this is it," Erik said. "We're almost there."

"Probably," Ria nodded. But there still wasn't much to say, so she just started on the way up, and kept on guard for Alduin's attack.

Because that attack was absolutely coming soon. It had to be.

Beyond the arch, there seemed to be nothing but blackness. But that made sense. If they were seeing the cloud from in here—if they were seeing it from the inside—there wouldn't be much else to look at. Ria hoped it wasn't actually solid all the way through. That would practically blind them out there.

It would've been nice if they had some kind of plan at this point. Every step Ria was taking up this ramp felt like a bad idea. She had no idea what to expect out there, but if she'd hoped this would end well… really, it was probably better that she not think about it too much.

And the arch was approaching. Something was definitely out there.

Ria wondered what exactly she'd be facing now. She almost had time to start imagining something for it. Some kind of grand final confrontation, some aspect of Alduin here to fight them. But then she got to the top of the ramp, and it all emerged at once.

The mountaintop was half-gone. The arch led straight to the outdoors, and beyond it was an unpaved path leading straight to the lip of an impact crater. Not a very large one—less than a quarter mile wide—but one end of it was filled with debris from higher up on the mountain, where the rocks had slid down after the shooting star had landed. And in every direction, as far as Ria could see, the sky was shrouded in rumbling black clouds, twisting and writhing in strange wispy shapes, leaving the ground below as dark as on a moonless night. She couldn't even tell how high up they were, because the clouds were all so close in on the mountainside.

In the center of the crater, there was a red glowing orb, maybe ten feet wide, made of strange web-like strands of magical energy. It was just sitting there, motionless, its lowest point just barely touching the ground. Several draugr were standing around it with their hands pressed to it, as though trying to will it to collapse. And inside it were a few big broken rocks, laid out messily around some… thing, in the center. It was hard to tell from here.

But Ria didn't have to guess what it was. She'd come all this way to set this right.

"Let's do this," she muttered, before giving Selthrei a twirl and stepping out into the open. The time to be afraid had come and gone.

And Erik was right at her side. They walked out and jumped over the lip of the crater one after another.

The draugr around the red orb didn't react. That was their mistake. Ria prepared Selthrei for one more throw.

Then a crack of thunder rippled down the mountainside, and a wall of force knocked her flat on her front. An instant later, another wave hit her, and Selthrei flew out from her hand, landing somewhere beyond her reach.

She pushed herself back upright as quickly as she could. But it was too late. The draugr were already upon them.

There were four—no, five of them attacking. Five draugr, and two Companions. Ria could barely tell what was going on. She grabbed a battle-axe by the haft as it swung down at her, kicked its wielder away, swung the axe wildly at another one—parried a sword strike, felt a blade bounce off her arm, felt something else hit her on the head—tried to just keep fighting—it was chaos. She could barely even think. There was just darkness and noise and frenzied combat.

At some point, she buried the axe in some draugr's neck, and stopped to summon Selthrei back to her hand. This really wasn't working. More of them were coming. She could hear the movement around her. But she couldn't stop fighting for even a second. Not for the tiniest moment. Or it would cost her everything.

Once she had Selthrei again, it went a little better. She put the lightning to generous use. Sending out one bolt after another, using the crescent waves to stun the ones she couldn't kill yet. The draugr kept hitting her back, but nothing was getting through her armor. It was just too strong.

Erik came into her field of view just as he was wrestling with a draugr for his sword. She obligingly helped out by putting a bolt of lightning into the back of the draugr's head. That gave him enough time to wrest his weapon free, and finish the thing off.

There was another draugr coming up behind him. Ria opened her mouth to shout a warning. But Erik already knew it was there. He turned around, raised his sword to strike outward—and the draugr thrust its own sword up beneath his arm.

The blade went in deep. Ria saw it happen. It went in right where the armor was weak, where the steel plate didn't cover. It went right into Erik's body, and stayed there.

Erik still managed to bury his sword halfway into the draugr's skull. The draugr fell first.

That was a fatal wound he'd just taken. There was a sword right through his ribcage, into his lungs. Maybe it'd hit his heart.

He turned around slowly, staggering slightly, to look Ria in the eyes. The sword was still in him. Blood was starting to trickle from his mouth.

Ria didn't know what to say. Or even what to think. The draugr were still coming. She stepped close just as Erik fell to his knees.

They were looking at each other still. She wanted to know what Erik was thinking right then. She wanted… she wanted something, anything, she didn't know, but no words were coming out.

Erik opened his mouth slowly. His words came as a pained whisper. "Tell my f—"

Then an arrow came flying in and hit him straight in the throat. His sentence died on his lips.

For a moment, Ria wasn't even aware of what she was doing. She attacked something, she hit something, she killed something. She forced herself to focus. She had to focus. What was going on?

Ria looked around. Took a deep, shuddering breath in, and looked around.

And she'd thought she was outnumbered before.

Draugr were appearing everywhere. Coming out from behind rocks and ridges, from every hiding place around this crater they possibly could. Everywhere Ria looked, countless pairs of red glowing eyes looked back. There must have been dozens of them. Hundreds. Hundreds of red draugr, under Alduin's direct control.

They were all here to kill her. And she had no one left to help.

So she did the only thing she could think of, and launched into a breakneck sprint towards the red orb.

Draugr were pouring in from every direction, chasing after her. She ignored them. Focused on her target. On the thing she had to protect. The few draugr around it were finally stepping away and focusing on her. Did they mean to attack her?

She pointed Selthrei vaguely forwards as she ran, and sent out a huge branching field of lightning, so bright and loud that she couldn't even see what it was doing. When it stopped, the draugr were all on the ground, and visibly smoldering.

When Ria reached the orb, she didn't slow down. It didn't matter. The draugr were gone, and this thing was still standing. It was obviously meant to block them out. But not her.

And sure enough, she passed right through it without even a bit of resistance. It was as harmless as being shone on with some magelight. She only stopped herself once she was inside.

From here, everything outside looked dark. The walls of this strange spherical web looked less like nearby confines, and more like distant constellations in the black sky. And the rumbling of the clouds was all so muted. It sounded like they were underwater. But none of that commanded her focus right now. She was busy looking at what was right in front of her face.

The Heart of Lorkhan was floating motionless in the air, upright, about a foot above the ground. The way it was surrounded by broken chunks of rock made it look like it'd been encased in them, before the impact. Now it just stood unsupported in the air, throbbing gently, despite being connected to nothing. It was such a bright, vivid red. It obviously belonged inside something living. There were holes at the top where it should have connected to a creature's veins.

And it really was gigantic. It was over half as tall as Ria was.

The draugr were approaching her outside, trying to get back in. Maybe they would, soon. This orb didn't seem like it was made to last forever. Ria ignored them for now, and focused on the heart.

Here she was, looking at the actual, physical, still-beating heart of her own god. It was just as Alduin had said. She'd come here to save her master. Now she just had to complete her mission.

Slowly, on a strangely curious instinct, she reached out with her free left hand, and laid her armored fingertips on the heart's muscular surface.

A memory flashed through her mind. A beautiful, silent memory of a soothing white light, cradling her with a love that ran deeper than her own soul. It was calling to her. Shor was calling to her.

It was time for her to answer.

With her hand still resting against the Heart of Lorkhan, Ria took a deep breath in, and pointed Selthrei straight up.

The bolt of lightning cut straight through the glowing red strands above. The entire orb disintegrated in an instant. Arcing waves spread out from her blade to the ground, incinerating the nearby draugr wherever it touched them. And the lightning shot upward, far upward, into the black sky above, shifting through brilliant jagged shapes with each passing second.

Ria could feel the energy coursing through her. This wasn't just her power. This was Shor's. The Companions were his warriors, and they always had been. The Nords were his people, and they always had been. And she felt all of them now.

The lightning's power was flooding into the sky above, burning through the veil of Alduin's darkness. A point of light was gathering, high above. Building up energy, spreading out slowly, preparing for the final deliverance of Shor's judgment.

Then, over the course of barely a second, a view opened up above to a very different sky. The whole mountainside, everything within the confines of the dark cloud walls, was filled with brilliant golden light. It was coming from a beautiful bright sun, a real sun, up at the very zenith of the sky, where Selthrei's lightning connected to it. And it was surrounded by swirling rings of vivid purple clouds, all shining brightly, singing with the beautiful radiance of Aetherius.

A single, massive bolt of lightning shot down from the sun, from the same point where Selthrei's beam connected, all the way back down to the ground. It struck not even twenty feet away from where Ria stood. The rocky earth burst apart in a shower of blinding white energy, leaving just the barest of a crater in its wake. And when the energy faded, someone was in its place.

The figure was crouched down on one knee, perfectly calm and steady in the smoldering crater. It was a man. A Nord man, of living flesh and blood, wearing armor of metal rings over layered hides. He looked massively strong, and his long-haired, bearded features were very well-aged, but not weathered. Yet Ria didn't recognize him. He was a stranger. Certainly not an aspect of Shor.

But she recognized the weapon in his hands. The sturdy dark steel axe, double-headed, with straight blades running parallel to the haft. She didn't even have to examine the designs on it to realize what this was. Any Companion would know Wuuthrad when they saw it.

As the ancient warrior Ysgramor rose to his feet, the beam of lightning coursed on, and another bolt struck the ground nearby. Again, the rocks shattered under the impact, and again, a figure appeared. This one was another wise-looking bearded man, wearing some sort of magical-looking hooded gray robes. Ria still didn't recognize him. But those robes were most definitely those of an elite mage.

The draugr inside the crater were all gathering outside Selthrei's reach. A couple of them tried to unleash shouts on the group, but the lightning arced out and dissipated the incoming energy before it could come close.

Seconds passed by, and Ria kept Selthrei high in the sky, as its blade carried on the connection of the heart's power. Again and again, lightning struck down from the brilliant sun, and every time, another person appeared on the ground. Ria could feel the energy running through her the entire time. It took her breath away like nothing ever had.

Ria didn't think she'd recognize these faces. But some of them, she knew from their present-day likenesses alone. There was the old Nord ruler Olaf One-Eye; and the famed dragon-slayer Gormlaith Golden-Hilt; and even Jurgen Windcaller, the founder of the pacifist Greybeards, wearing his signature gray robes. They looked all the more magnificent in person.

There were so many more that she didn't recognize. But they were all heroes of Sovngarde. And they were coming back to Mundus once more, to defend the god of creation in his time of need. All of them were standing completely ready and alert, their weapons out, all entirely confident in what they had to do.

Then one of the lightning bolts delivered another warrior, and Ria recognized him on sight. It was Kodlak White-Mane himself. The Harbinger of the Companions, slain in their own hall mere months after Ria had joined. She couldn't believe her eyes. Even after everything, she couldn't believe it.

Skjor came down next. And then Aela, and Farkas. And even Vilkas, Kodlak's successor, so close by Ria's side that she felt the rocks bounce off her armor. Every one of them was all fully armed and armored, just as they had been in life, down to the war paint on their faces.

Vilkas turned and smiled brightly at her, before remarking over the noise of the lightning, "Fancy seeing you here!"

The beam came to an end just a moment later, leaving Ria in silence once again. But the sun still shone brightly above. Sovngarde's sky continued to look down upon them.

"Well, let's not waste time," Ria replied, before stepping away and looking around at everyone around her.

The draugr were absolutely everywhere. They completely filled the inside of the crater, beyond where Selthrei's radius had kept them away. There must have been hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Alduin must have put everything he possibly could into this day. He must have expected something grand to come for him.

Then Ria looked at the heroes of Sovngarde around here. They were already wordlessly moving into a defensive ring formation, centered on the Heart of Lorkhan. There were perhaps fifty of them here, if even that. Fifty, against at least a thousand draugr.

If Alduin wanted something grand, Ria didn't doubt they could give it to him.

She thrust her sword into the air once more, and cried out, "For Skyrim!"

An army of warriors from five eras joined her in her battle cry. Their voices were as one. "FOR SKYRIM!"

Perhaps this really was Ria's day to die. Perhaps that was her fate, to complete her sacrifice, to join her Shield-Siblings in Sovngarde. But if that was indeed true, if she was fated to die today, she couldn't imagine it being in better company.

At that moment, the horde of draugr began their charge. Their footfalls were a thundering noise to drown out even the column of clouds. They were already so close in. They'd be here in just a few seconds.

And Ria was ready for them. With her sword held high, she took a single step forward, and leapt straight into the fray.


	57. Thorald 9

Middas, 4:55 PM, 76th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Saarthal

This was it. Thorald Gray-Mane, versus the forces of Alduin.

The moment he'd jumped through the barrier, he'd realized that no one else would be following him in. And so he wasted no time in moving on. The element of surprise wasn't on his side. And the iron doors to the underground ruin itself were right there.

Thankfully, he had come prepared. Among the various items on his person was a dwarven metal war hammer, to replace the one he'd lost in the Raldbthar cave-in. If he had to, he could break open the doors with it, given enough time and patience.

But first, he tried reaching out and turning the handle, just to make sure. And the doors just opened right up.

Either Alduin was very stupid, or he had some kind of trap nearby. Probably not the former. Thorald sighed and stepped inside.

The first thing on the inside of the doors was a narrow staircase downwards. He descended slowly, one step after another, scanning every visible surface for traps the whole time. This was a cramped, steeply sloped area. It wouldn't be very enjoyable to have a fight in here.

But nothing happened. The ruin was completely silent around him. With his muffle enchant on, Thorald couldn't even hear his own footsteps.

The air in here was cold, and faintly musty, like it was in old ruins. Something about it was making him… very uncomfortable. He couldn't describe it better than that. It wasn't just the threat of lethal traps ahead. Something about this place was amiss. He could feel it all around him. It was like descending into the jaws of some ancient beast. This wasn't where he was supposed to be.

But still, he continued down, until he emerged into the room at the staircase's end. The first room of Saarthal. It certainly didn't disappoint.

The Nord stood at the top of a tall, open space, sort of like a multi-leveled atrium, lit up by torches all around the walls.. There was a single pillar running from floor to ceiling. It was ringed by a couple of platforms at even intervals, and it should have been connected by bridges to some adjacent doorways, but a lot of the old masonry was broken apart. Instead, there was a wooden platform for him to stand on right now, and a rope bridge to another ramp downward. This whole place, in fact, had been fitted with newly-added platforms and railings. The College must've put in a lot of work to make it traversable.

There was nothing to do but proceed along his supposed path. It was going to take him downwards around the outer wall, then onto the first platform of the middle column, then down a spiraling ramp to the floor. He thought he could see a doorway out from there. The whole path was empty and unobstructed.

If it weren't for that strange, prickling feeling, he might've felt like he was in an entirely normal ruin. Well, the strange feeling, and also the energy barrier outside. That removed a good deal of doubt.

All he had to do was get down to the bottom safely.

He took a slow, tentative step onto the rope bridge. Despite his muffle enchant, it creaked audibly under his weight. Felt sturdy enough, at least.

"… _toor SHUL!"_

Thorald heard the voice, and that was all the warning he had. It was somewhere beneath him. He looked down, and saw a massive wave of solid orange light coming up from below. Fire. A fire shout.

Well, that was quick.

Out of sheer trained reflex, he jumped backwards off the bridge. There was a split second, as he was midair, where he considered that he could've been faster about this.

Then the wave of fire crashed into the bridge, and everything went up in flames. The ropes snapped instantly. Fire went everywhere. All over the hanging remains of the bridge, all over the platform, licking at Thorald's armored feet and legs. It didn't hurt, of course, with his magic immunity. But it was probably going to start in a second, when the wood itself fully took over the duty of burning.

He was just starting to consider his options now, when something cracked loudly beneath the platform, and the whole thing tilted suddenly under his feet—outwards, towards the open space of the atrium. Thorald skidded and scrambled to regain his footing, holding his arms out for balance. And it was almost starting to work, before he put down his left foot and found nothing but air.

For a split second, he was left teetering on the edge, looking straight down at the drop to the bottom, some thirty feet below.

A terrible, lurching feeling sank down in his chest.

This was bad.

But still, his training didn't fail him. As he began to fall, he braced his feet and jumped hard off the side of the wooden platform, to reach the next ring down on the central column. The ground started to come up to meet him—he felt the air rushing around his body—he reached his arms out, to try and grab on—

He never got as far as the walkway. His face and chest came right down on the middle of the spiraling wooden ramp. And there, his thoughts ended.

They ended, and all sense of Time ended with them. For some unknown duration, there were no thoughts at all.

And then, just like, that, Thorald was back in the world. He was flat on his side, splayed out awkwardly on a cold stone floor, amid a mess of wooden splinters. There was no time to figure out how he'd gotten here. All he knew was that he was in combat.

As he rolled back onto his feet, he drew the ebony sword from his belt. This would do.

The red-eyed draugr was standing right there in front of him, not ten feet away. Thorald glanced around quickly, and saw another one directly behind him. They had moved to outflank him already. And they were already both closing in.

The one ahead looked to be holding a battle-axe. Thorald kept his eyes on it as he charged forwards. Probably, he was going to be met with a fast strike. Maybe with the tapered spike on the end. So far, the draugr was holding the weapon in a diagonal defensive stance, which made it hard to guess.

At the last second, the axe began to move downward. Not very much. The spike, then.

Thorald swerved sideways just enough for the metal point to glance off his pauldron. His charge didn't slow down in the slightest. The draugr's arms were up, with the battle-axe on guard, preventing a direct strike.

It was a fast sequence of moves. He turned, ducked down, and slammed his right elbow into the draugr's unarmored abdomen, just beneath the breastplate. At the same moment, his left hand grabbed onto the draugr's left wrist, keeping it from moving against him.

Then, once he had enough of a split second to stop and prepare the strike, he stabbed upward with his sword at the same spot he'd just elbowed. The ebony blade slid right up into the draugr's chest so smoothly, it didn't even feel like he'd made a wound. It felt like the gap in its flesh had already been there.

That was the end of this one. Thorald kicked its limp body off his blade. That low red light was gone from its eyes.

But he couldn't focus on that for long, because the second draugr was already upon him. He turned around just in time to see a greatsword coming down at his head.

His own sword came up in a fast, upward parry. The blades clanged against one another with a beautiful lasting ring. His parry was just enough to deflect the incoming swing past his side. There was so much force in that blow, he barely had to even add any of his own. With a quick twirl of his wrist, he brought his sword right back around, and stepped aside for a downward diagonal strike.

The ebony edge clove straight through the draugr's collarbone, and carried right on into its torso, only stopping when it met the top of the steel breastplate. That was more than enough. He braced his left hand on the breastplate's side, and twisted the blade free.

This last one had been too easy. The draugr had taken far too big a swing. It must have expected him to take a little longer on its peer. But that didn't matter now. There was a mission to pursue.

He stopped in place, took a deep breath, and looked around. This was the bottom of the atrium. The wooden ramp was smashed through where he'd hit it. That impact must have broken a few bones. He could thank his potion injectors for keeping that from stopping him.

But as he looked around the room, a realization dawned. The broken-through ramp was the least of his worries. Alduin had set the upper wooden platforms ablaze. A few of them were still burning even now. And unless Thorald suddenly became proficient at climbing stone brick walls, his path to the outside was now cut off.

If he couldn't get out of this ruin quickly… well, it wouldn't matter much then.

As he headed towards the next doorway, Thorald swallowed involuntarily. He was feeling a sudden, aching pressure behind his eyes. It took him entirely by surprise. But he understood what this was. Zaryth wasn't going to see him again.

After all the perils he'd been through, it wasn't surprising that this would be his last one. Thorald Gray-Mane, versus the forces of Alduin. There didn't have to be a victor in a fight like that.

Then his thoughts were interrupted by a growling, undead voice. He couldn't tell where from. It sounded like it was coming from beneath his feet.

"Thorald. Leader of Squad 29. I have had my eye on you."

He stopped in place briefly, looking around the room for a possible source to the sound. Nothing was in sight. For lack of a better option, he decided to just ignore it and carry on to the doorway.

"Coming in here alone was a foolish move. I have seen you in battle. You rely on your equipment, given to you by others, simply to survive. The same is true of all your numbered allies. You render yourselves predictable."

When had Alduin seen him? Had he done it from a distance, somehow? That was impressive magic, even considering all the circumstances. Nobody in Blackreach had ever considered that Alduin could possibly view things like that. It raised the question of what else the World-Eater had witnessed.

As Thorald moved through the doorway, another thought occurred to him. More of a suspicion, maybe. Alduin might've been watching him in Raldbthar. Maybe that had even had some connection to the giant nirnroot in the corridor, and the ensuing cave-in.

That _was_ an interesting thought. And sort of disturbing. Thorald still wasn't going to dignify this with a reply.

Beyond the doorway was a narrow corridor going straight ahead, but it was caved in not far along. Fortunately, there was also an open arch on the immediate right, leading to an adjacent, curving room. He had a feeling it was going to just lead him right around the caved-in part, if only because this ruin had already been explored.

The curving room looked to be empty. Thorald treaded cautiously all the same. Truth be told, he didn't know what was waiting for him in the rest of Saarthal, and that was a problem.

Alduin's disembodied voice continued. "I knew you mortal upstarts would find this place eventually. But I did expect your inevitable attack to be made more intelligently. Not only did you enter here alone, you brought your precious Zaryth along as well."

Thorald willed himself to keep walking as before, but he wanted to stop. He wanted to stop and think, because it sounded like Alduin had just said Zaryth's name to him. And if he knew that name…

"Yes, I know about Zaryth. That witless would-be mage you've lost yourself with. Do not worry, Thorald. Not all of my draugr are inside Saarthal. I will be sure to take good care of her."

For a split second, all Thorald could think of was everyone he'd left behind on the surface. He was about to start feeling concerned about them, to start contemplating their odds of survival against whatever Alduin had waiting. But he extinguished that thought the moment it came to his mind.

This was why Alduin was just talking to him, instead of doing anything. It was to distract him. To compel him to lower his guard, to make him vulnerable to something else.

The Nord looked around himself again. Sure enough, the room curved right back around to the same stretch of corridor. And where the next doorway connected, the corridor wasn't caved in. But it all looked empty. Sounded empty. Nothing was attacking him.

Half a second after he had that thought, a pair of icy cold hands closed tight around his neck.

It was from behind. He was being strangled from behind. The fingers were pressing painfully deep into his windpipe, cutting off his air, right through the plating of his armor. He had a few seconds, at most.

More draugr were coming in. Red-eyed undead, striding in one by one from both doorways. They would be on him in even less time than the stranglehold needed.

Thorald raised his left arm above his head and twisted away, prying both hands off with the levering force of his upper arm. It was another draugr, looking right at him. His sword was already coming around for a stab. This thing's torso would work fine.

But for this move, he had to cross too much space, bring his sword around too far, take too much time to attack. The draugr stepped aside neatly, and when the strike came in, it grabbed his sword arm in both hands. It was going to disarm him in a second.

Thorald was in no mood. He drew a throwing knife with his free hand, and plunged it into the side of the draugr's neck.

Something slammed hard into the back of his helmet. Even through the ebony plating, it still dizzied him. He stumbled forwards, let go of the throwing knife, and wrenched his sword arm free in the same motion.

There were four draugr right in front of him. More were coming in through both doors. How were they coming in from the left? He'd entered that way.

The middle-left draugr had a war hammer. That explained the surprise strike. Thorald took a brief moment to assess the others. All carrying melee weapons, all preparing to attack him at once. And he was, effectively, cornered.

But he wasn't done here.

His first target was the hammer-wielder. He lunged in and grabbed the weapon by the middle of its haft, yanking it upwards to give his sword room to stab through the draugr's chest. Then he kicked the middle-right draugr away, tore his sword free, shoved the inert corpse into the other attacks on the left, turned back around—

A pair of huge undead arms grabbed him around the middle. He stopped in place, twisted and slammed his left elbow into the offending draugr's flank, brought his sword up to stab the creature over his shoulder. His blade hit nothing but air.

The near-right draugr had recovered from his kick. It swung its sword right at his neck, he blocked it—and then it grabbed onto his sword hand with its free one, and started levering the blade closer to him. And the big draugr was still holding onto him from behind. He could feel its armor pressed up on his own. It just wasn't yielding.

He reached for his next throwing knife with his free hand, and drew it and slashed at the big draugr's hands in the same motion. The dwarven metal blade sliced deep into the undead flesh, but the draugr maintained its grip. Time to try again.

But then another pair of hands grabbed onto his left hand, and pried the knife right out. And another hand grabbed onto the blade—the actual blade—of his ebony sword, and began to twist that away too. The near-right draugr's sword was inching closer to his neck.

There were just too many of them. He couldn't fight these things all at once.

He lashed out with another kick at the sword-wielding draugr, so forcibly that it broke them right out of their bind. In the same motion, he yanked his sword free and elbowed the big draugr again, this time with his sword arm. That gave him just enough room to kick the draugr off him—more of a shove, really, with the same foot that'd done the first kick—and turn around to finish the thing off.

Another hand grabbed onto his sword arm. Two hands. They grabbed on, and twisted his arm outward, and before he could react, the big draugr had stepped in and taken hold of his shoulders. It just pulled him forward, irresistibly, out onto the ground, until he landed on his knees, then on his front. His sword left his hand.

"I have watched you in battle before, you imbecile," one of the draugr spat. He couldn't even tell which one. "I prepared for an army of fighters like you. You thought I would have trouble with just one?"

Thorald twisted free of the hands on his shoulders, rolling onto his back—as best he could, with the big rigid-walled cargo he was carrying—and drawing his Akaviri steel sword in place of the ebony one. He was completely surrounded by draugr. So many red eyes looking down on him. But he wasn't about to let them just kill him. They'd have to do better than this.

Was this the sort of thing people saw right before they died? A dozen pairs of glowing red eyes staring down at them, from a host of blackened lifeless skull-faces? It wasn't exactly a comfort.

A steel boot slammed into his hand, incredibly hard. His sword went flying off out of sight, and bounced noisily off a wall somewhere. Then the draugr descended on him all at once, grabbing onto limbs, spreading him out, forcing him into a splayed position, as though he were just stretching. No amount of struggling was helping. There were so many hands on him. So many undead hands. They were all just holding him completely still. Completely helpless.

One more draugr walked up into his field of vision. It was holding a glinting steel dagger. It began to crouch down over him, carefully, keeping the dagger in view the whole time.

Dammit, Alduin was enjoying this. Thorald wished he didn't have to give a monster like him the satisfaction.

So he wouldn't.

He closed his eyes. Let out a long, slow breath. Waited for it to come.

" _YOL-TOOR-SHUL!_ "

That wasn't an undead voice.

Thorald opened his eyes just in time to see a crackling wave of brilliant fire come crashing down on him. The hands holding onto him all slackened. Metal-armored bodies thudded loudly on the ground. The fire ran its way down him painlessly, then dissipated.

One more figure stepped into view, right over his head, looking at him upside-down. A person of some sort, totally concealed in ornate layered black-and-gold robes. Going by the sound of their voice, it was a man. But his face was hidden behind a peculiar-looking mask. It was all gold, with strange, inhuman features. Whatever it was, Thorald hadn't seen it before. … Unless he had.

The figure stared at him silently.

He pushed himself upright and turned around for a better look. This was obviously a dragon priest of some kind. That mask was unmistakable. Above the eyes, it radiated out in ridges and short wavy horns. Below the eyes, it consisted of what looked like a neat, stylized array of downward-pointing pincers. But the eyes themselves were a very distinct pair of slits, set in round, faintly scowl-shaped recesses. Thorald had seen those before.

Of course, if the mask hadn't been a giveaway, the sculpted golden dragon-head shapes atop the figure's shoulders might have been. Or the actual dragon scales armoring parts of his arms and hands. Not an inch of skin was visible.

Thorald asked, "Who are you?"

"A friend," the masked figure said tersely. When it wasn't being used for a shout, his voice was a magnificent thing to hear. It was deep, and elegantly smooth, and strangely reverberating. Even with those two words, it was clear that there was a magical energy behind them. Made sense, for someone with Voice powers.

The Nord pushed himself up to his feet slowly. But he kept on guard. "You're a dragon priest."

"I was," the figure nodded. "And you, Thorald, were a supporter of the Stormcloaks. Time changes us." He paused. His voice was seemingly colored by a peculiar vaguely-Nordic accent. Maybe it was how Nords had spoken in his original era. "I am Miraak. The Arch-Mage Savos Aren told me much about you. After the Battle of the Sleeping Tree, he came to count you in his inner circle."

Well, then. … Thorald had to stop and think about what all of that meant. Fifteen seconds ago, he had been busy accepting his own impending death. Now, this had happened.

That was definitely quite the knowledge of Thorald's background. It wasn't exactly a guarantee that Miraak was on his side, of course—even if he had obtained that information peaceably, he still might have had some ulterior motive in appearing now. But what was Thorald going to do? Reject his help?

"All right," he said. "Well… Thank you for saving me just now. That was very well-timed."

"You are quite welcome," Miraak replied serenely.

"But these draugr couldn't possibly have been the last. So we'd best move. If you're here to help me, I'm sure you know what I'm here to do."

"Destroy Alduin's conduit. Yes." He started walking towards the next doorway, then paused. "Collect your weaponry. You will need it."

That was a fair point. Thorald was down to one knife and his backup sword, here. He carefully went about searching the room for each of his other weapons—locating each, cleaning their blades off as needed, and sheathing them once again. Miraak watched the doorway silently as he worked.

As he picked up his ebony sword once again, he asked, "So, Miraak—how did you get your voice to sound like that?"

The dragon priest laughed out loud. Not some little dignified, sardonic chuckle, but an actual full-on laugh. If it weren't for the reverberating tone, he would've sounded every bit like a good-natured Nord enjoying a bit of merriment. "Ahhh. No one has ever asked that of me. It must have happened sometime between donning a dragon priest mask and leading an uprising against my overlords."

"When was that?"

"Some millennia ago. I spent much of the intervening time trapped in Apocrypha, under the watchful eyes of Hermaeus Mora. It is a long story, to say the least. But it can be safely said that I have welcomed the Oblivion Purge with open arms."

Thorald had to move a few bodies around to find his last throwing knife. That was the last of it. He sheathed the knife as he stood upright again. "Is that why your mask looks like tentacles, then?"

Miraak reached up and brushed his gloved fingers over the pincer-shapes on the mask's lower half. "Yes," he said quietly. "I have yet to find a suitable replacement. My re-emergence into the world, as it were, took place only one week past."

"Well, for what it's worth, I love the outfit."

The dragon priest began to laugh out loud again. Then a draugr appeared at the doorway, and he promptly fried it inside and out with a massive dual-cast shock spell. It collapsed in a smoldering heap. "… Are you ready, then?"

Thorald nodded and walked up by his new ally's side. "Let's go. Do you know the way to the orb? The, uh—conduit, rather? If that's its name."

"Jyggalag referred to it as such. I would trust his appraisal."

With that final remark, Miraak started on his way through the doorway and into the corridor. Thorald kept at his side, ebony sword on guard. Doubtless, more draugr were coming.

This corridor didn't continue on for very long. It opened right up into another big atrium-type room, again starting at its top level, but this time with more pillars—four, in fact, two by two, with the near-left one stopping halfway up. The pillars' ringed platforms were all connected by a grid of stone bridges. One such bridge connected the corridor to the nearest column.

Thorald couldn't see much of the room yet. Only its upper-right portion, really. But he knew what to expect once they came through.

"Straight ahead," Miraak said. "The passage is caved in—"

A spell discharged behind Thorald's back. He spun around to see a massive fireball flooding through the corridor. But it wasn't aimed at him. It was going towards Miraak.

Naturally, the Nord jumped in the way. The fireball burst harmlessly against him. By the time it cleared, and its undead caster was visible, he already had a knife in his left hand. He stepped forwards and threw it with all the force he could bring to bear.

The draugr was only some ten feet away. His knife embedded itself deep between its empty glowing eyes. They both went out instantly. It fell limply to its knees, then tipped over and landed on its side, completely motionless and inert.

Miraak turned and looked at him silently.

"Stay on guard," Thorald urged, before heading over to retrieve his blade. No further draugr seemed to be coming from this direction, for now. But after being taken by surprise by those hands on his throat, he was starting to suspect they were actually using invisibility magic.

The dragon priest was still standing in place when Thorald returned. He restarted his sentence as though nothing had happened. "The passage is caved in, but I can move the debris. I appreciate the rescue, by the way. Alduin is even more cunning and relentless now than I remembered of him."

It made sense that he'd known of Alduin before now. Thorald probably should have figured that out already. He wondered if that gave him any different context than what everyone else knew. It was hard not to know at least a little about Alduin, what with him having been around since last year.

But in any case, Thorald shook his head and started back towards the next atrium. "Well, get used to it. This is all in a day's work."

The two of them walked out into the atrium in single file, Miraak in front. He seemed to know the way. The floor was very far below them. But again, no draugr were visible. They really weren't making themselves targets.

As they crossed the first bridge, the undead voice returned. "Miraak. You've picked an ill time to return to Mundus. Feeling indebted to the Dragonborn, perhaps? For killing Hermaeus Mora for you?"

Miraak sighed audibly as he continued walking.

"He's probably going to attack us soon," Thorald commented.

"Yes," the dragon priest replied wearily.

The undead voice was not deterred. "I'm not sure what you think you can accomplish here. I hate to be the one to say it to you, Miraak, but you don't have much of a reputation for success. First you rebelled against the dragons, which failed. Then you tried to escape Hermaeus Mora's clutches, which failed. Now you're here. You must think you're done letting people have their way with you."

As the voice spoke to them, Miraak and Thorald edged their way around the first pillar, then crossed over a recently-added wooden bridge to the next, and edged around that also. The bridge to the far wall was broken, with a gap of five or six feet over the floor far below. Beyond it, the corridor was almost immediately caved in. Apparently, the eras really hadn't been gentle to Saarthal.

Thorald couldn't help but feel for Miraak a little, though. He'd thought Alduin had had some bad things to say to _him_.

" _ro DAH!_ "

The shout's thunderclap rang deafeningly through the atrium. Thorald turned just in time to see the draugr on the platform to their left, and the wave of force coming straight at them. He was about to dive back behind the pillar, when Miraak raised a ward spell between them both. The wave broke over it harmlessly.

Draugr were appearing everywhere. From behind pillars, within exits—even from the corridor they'd just came from. Thorald turned around and readied his sword. This was going to be messy.

" _WULD-NAH!_ " With an air-shattering slam of displaced energy, Miraak shot through the air between the columns, and re-emerged with his foot on the offending draugr's torso. Just by stopping there, he kicked the draugr off the platform so hard that it flew into the far wall before falling down.

That left Thorald alone on the broken bridge. He returned around the column just in time to meet another draugr on the next bridge back. A few of the ones on the lower levels had bows in hand. He ignored them, even as one of their arrows bounced off his pauldron. He was busy.

This one draugr in front of him had a greatsword. It didn't seem eager to attack him. It was just holding the blade out, walking closer carefully, keeping him from coming too close. Keeping him busy.

Meanwhile, Miraak had moved out onto the opposite bridge. He was throwing fire spells with incredible speed and power, burning bolts of magic streaking across the open space, incinerating the draugr one by one. One of the projectiles came straight across and smashed into Thorald's own opponent. He had a beautiful view of the draugr's red-eyed face as the fire seared the blackened flesh off the whitish bone beneath.

That was close. This bridge was made of wood. It was mercifully unaffected, but what a repeat that would've been.

Then, with the same shout as before, Miraak brought himself down to the bridge directly beneath Thorald, and let off a few more spells from there. Over the span of just a few seconds, he repeated the process again and again, so rapidly that he was changing positions even before his projectiles hit. Fire was everywhere. The draugr were all being reduced to ash.

Not even twenty seconds later, the dragon priest used his shout one last time, and jumped up to the bridge by Thorald's side. The entire room was completely silent. There were huge black burn marks all over the stone. All of the draugr had been reduced to little more than piles of cinders. The air smelled faintly like smoke.

How many of the red draugr had there been? Ten? Twenty? Thorald hadn't even managed to kill any of them himself.

"The time for talking is long past, Alduin," Miraak spat.

Thorald couldn't help but smile.

A few seconds went by where they were just looking at each other. Waiting for the other to do something, to resume the mission. Thorald eventually pointed a thumb over his shoulder, at the broken bridge behind himself. "That corridor. It's caved in. Are your Voice powers going to help with that too, then?"

Miraak walked past him silently and made a running jump across the broken bridge. He cleared the gap effortlessly, and landed nimbly on his feet, right in front of the slanted wall of debris.

Thorald jumped after him—it really wasn't a difficult gap—and examined the debris more closely. There was quite a lot of it. Stone masonry, wooden beams, all broken and piled up from floor to ceiling.

He asked, "Are you sure you can get us through this safely?"

"The ancients used the power of their Thu'um to break down the gates of fortified cities, and throw scores of warriors to the wind like they were chaff. I am Miraak, the First Dragonborn. You think I will be deterred by a mound of _rocks?_ "

Miraak took an audible breath in.

" _Fus… RO DAH!_ "

The thunder of his shout struck so hard, the ground itself shook under Thorald's feet. A brilliant wave of unstoppable energy tore straight down the corridor, right into the wall of debris. And the debris yielded. It crushed backwards into itself, shifting and tumbling away, following the wave on its path until it had settled out into a much longer, flatter distribution. When the dust settled, it revealed a clear path to the corridor's end.

"Nice job," Thorald grinned. Since Miraak couldn't see his face, he gave a nod for emphasis, before starting on his way into the corridor himself.

Of course, the floor was still covered in debris. He clambered over most of it without any trouble. Towards the end, he just kicked the loose rocks aside wherever they got in the way of his gate. Miraak followed along behind him audibly. Considering what sorts of things they'd been dealing with lately, maybe it _was_ better that the magic-immune person be in front.

The corridor led to another large room, octagonal in shape. There were doorways on all eight walls. A stone walkway ran around the room's outer edges, connecting each door to the ones beside it. And within that were eight staircases, descending down to a flat central space, about ten feet down from the top. Four pillars ran from the diagonal edges of this space to the ceiling high above, neatly dividing the staircases that went to them.

Floating in between the four columns was Alduin's conduit.

The stone sphere had a few feet of clearance in every direction. It was perfectly motionless, except for a writhing, shifting inner light that lit the engraved glyphs with a sporadic reddish glow.

"You know what you need to do," Miraak said.

Thorald swallowed. He did know what he needed to do. "You know what this will result in," he replied. His throat felt suddenly dry.

Still, he started on his way down the stairs. And as he did, he unslung his backpack and carried its straps on his left forearm. The contents really were quite heavy.

Behind him, the dragon priest said, "I will remain here with you till the end. Perhaps we will see another day."

That was certainly optimistic of him, wasn't it?

It was just as Thorald reached the bottom of the staircase that the first draugr appeared. Just a few at first, from the left and right doorways, coming out and starting down the stairs themselves.

Miraak jumped down the rest of the stairs, and lit up spell auras in both hands. Then he issued forth a shout Thorald had never heard before: " _MUL-QAH-DIIV!_ "

It was like what mage armor wished it could be. A brilliant, blazing ethereal array of spiked, horned plating laid itself over Miraak's body, from the head down. It looked every bit like the magical likeness of a dragon. If he'd looked imposing before… now he looked more like a god.

"Work quickly," he said. "I will protect you."

"You got it." The Nord forced himself to ignore the draugr, and put his attention instead on the orb.

The thing was towering over him. Somehow, it looked even bigger than the replica in Blackreach had. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything this powerful. This, this artifact, was what was keeping the Shadow Unending going. It had to be destroyed.

As an aside, a few of the glyphs on the sphere's underside seemed familiar. That wasn't much of a surprise.

Thorald knelt down and laid his sword at his side. Pulled open the top of his backpack, and examined its contents. There wasn't much to see, really, except for a big dwarven metal rectangle. All of the sensitive components had been encased in a reinforced metal box, specifically to keep anything from happening to it before its time.

Miraak was already casting spells. Footsteps were starting to come in audibly from all different directions. More draugr.

The rectangle had a small, square lid in the middle, maybe three inches to a side. Thorald flipped it open with his thumb and forefinger. Inside were two buttons on either side of a knob. The labeling was all very clear.

Saarthal, or the underground tomb portion that Thorald had entered, could have contained thousands of draugr. Entire thousands. And if it hadn't, Alduin could have moved as many as he liked in here.

And, of course, the way back out had been destroyed. They were trapped in here.

Thorald pressed the button on the left, the one labeled 'SET'. The knob in the middle had a marker that could be turned anywhere from 1 to 30. He turned it just enough for the mechanism inside to click once—that was 1. Then he pressed the button on the right. The one labeled 'ARM'.

With that, he laid the backpack down, shoved it directly underneath the conduit, and grabbed his sword as he stood back up. The draugr were all over the place. Miraak was throwing huge swathes of flame all across their ranks, nimbly weaving his way through the pillars, evading nearly everything the draugr could throw at him. Now and then, an arrow would strike him, only to simply bounce off his armor.

He seemed to be doing well enough.

"Sixty seconds," Thorald called over to him. "Then we're done."

One of the draugr leapt down the stairs at Miraak with a battle-axe overhead. The dragon priest ducked out of the way, knocked the draugr past him onto its front with a blast of fire, then turned around to finish it off with a lightning bolt. When he was done, he glanced at Thorald briefly, and nodded. His voice came as a deep, almost commanding utterance. "Understood!"

For the most part, the backpack's contents weren't really new. The Black Machine had used ten or so devices like this one to destroy the Thalmor garrison in Markarth. But those had contained nothing but J'zargo's explosive dust, with timed clockwork igniters. This… had a little more than that.

Thorald turned around to find three draugr coming down the stairway at him. From the way he'd come in. He sank into a fighting stance just as they got to the bottom.

The middle one was coming at him with a war axe. If he'd wanted, maybe he could have come up with some defense for this. But he was out of patience. He just charged in, let the axe bounce off his left arm, and put his sword through the draugr's chest.

Then he kicked the left draugr away behind him, and tore his blade back out to block the right draugr's sword strike with a strike of his own. But his strike was harder and faster by far. It went right into the undead creature's sinewy neck. One more pair of red glowing eyes extinguished.

The left draugr was already recovering. Thorald turned back around and threw one of his knives into the base of its neck.

There was no time to recover the weapon. More draugr were coming still.

A crack of thunder ran through the room. Miraak had somehow gotten up on top of the left stairs, and sent a whole crowd of the incoming undead all flying and tumbling into the far right corner. Thorald ignored that and returned to what he was doing.

Forty-five seconds, he reckoned. They didn't have to wait long. All they had to do was keep the draugr from disturbing Thorald's device.

But the Nord was being surrounded. He retreated back towards the conduit, leading the draugr into a tighter space. There were nearly a dozen of these things coming at him.

And then: " _ro DAH!_ "

Another crack of thunder. The wave of force swept across the draugr in front of him, and put them all on their backs in an ungraceful heap. That was Miraak. Thorald didn't even know where the man was right then.

But he didn't bother to wait and find out. He leapt forward and started methodically finishing the draugr off, one lethal strike after another, before they could even get back to their feet. He had six of them down before any of them managed to fight back. And even then, he ignored it and let his armor take the hits. These shouts were making his job very easy.

More draugr were, of course, still coming in. But Thorald stayed in the moment. He met the next group as soon as he was done with the last, dashing across the stairs to run his sword through a passing draugr's neck, before tearing it messily out the front and turning to face the others. They seemed to understand he was worth trying to kill, at least, because they ignored his device in favor of him.

Thorald was only keeping a vague track of time. But he knew they were around thirty seconds remaining. So, so close.

Then that accursed undead voice rang throughout the room. It could have been coming from any of these draugr. Or all of them.

"You fools. You think my work will end with this floating stone trinket? The damage it wrought cannot be reversed. Mundus has passed its point of no return. Soon, it will destroy itself, and everyone in it. You came here too late."

Thorald didn't even bother stopping fighting as he listened. It wasn't like these things were going to let him. He could cut them down all damn day, not that he had to right now.

"Yeah," he grunted, before kicking the nearest draugr right down the stairs, putting it on the floor at Miraak's feet. He left it for the dragon priest to finish off as he turned back to the others. "Bit late to convince us to stop, you idiot."

Fifteen seconds. Any moment now, the timer would reach its limit, and this whole thing would be done with. All they had to do was keep it safe a tiny bit longer.

Another crowd of draugr was coming down at Thorald. At this point, they were having to wade through the bodies of the ones that had come before. He ignored them and retreated back to the pillars, where Miraak had been fending off the draugr from the other three sides.

Not exactly an even split, there. Maybe once Thorald was in Sovngarde, he could start studying the Voice himself. He doubted he'd be short on time.

As he took the first of the draugr on, he called over to Miraak, "Hey! I forgot to ask! Why'd you come here to begin with?"

Somewhere behind him, a huge swathe of fire lit up the whole room. It was incredibly bright. Whatever it'd done, it must have been big.

"I thought it was obvious," Miraak called back, just as calmly and elegantly as always. "You needed me."

Thorald caught the draugr's battle-axe by the haft with one hand, and with a decisive twist of his whole body, chopped the creature's head clean off. "Well, it was nice meeting you!"

Any second now. This would be over any second.

A pair of thick, armored arms grabbed him from behind. Their owner pressed up against his back. When he felt it, he couldn't help but sigh. This had all been going so well.

Then he looked down, and saw that the arms were covered in a layer of ethereal plates and spikes.

"You too, Thorald," Miraak murmured into his ear.

And then they were both engulfed in magical energy. A blinding bright swirl that tore Thorald's very soul through the heart of Time.

The air around him turned cold. The arms let go, and he fell forward onto a bank of snow. There was wind blowing on him. He looked up, and saw an outdoor mountainside.

What was this?

Just as suddenly as he'd landed, the earth shook hard beneath him. An instant later, a whole swathe of ground down at the base of the mountain erupted into the air. Giant chunks of ice and rock flew up and apart, giving way to a massive, towering plume of fire and ash.

Then, a moment after that, the sound caught up with him. Thunder didn't do it justice. It was a roar. A colossal, titanic, ear-splitting roar of raw destructive energy, crashing through the earth, tearing apart everything in its path. Nothing had ever approached this power. Nothing he had seen, or heard, or even dreamt of.

The ruins of Saarthal had just been destroyed.

Fortunately, the ash didn't get very far. It went up into the air, and then fell right back down on itself, blown gently to the right by the wind. That just put it on another mountainside. As the seconds went by, and the ash cleared away, Thorald began to see what was left in its place. Calling it a crater might have been a little generous. There was just a great big blackened hole in the ground.

He wasn't sure where his fellow Black Gears were, from here. He knew they were far enough away not to be affected by this, since they'd settled on a very distant observation point. But he still didn't even know if they were alive or dead. That would have to be answered soon.

But first, the Nord pushed himself back to his feet, and turned around. Miraak was standing there on the snowy slope, watching him silently.

"What did you just do?"

"I teleported us out of Saarthal," Miraak said, like it was any other deed. Which, in all fairness, it really was. "I had planned to do so for myself. But I wanted to try to extract you as well."

Thorald pulled his helmet off, and took in a deep breath of fresh cold air. Then he sighed and laid his free hand on his forehead. "Why didn't you tell me you can teleport? I thought we were going to die in there."

"I had very little reason to think it would do anything but kill you. Until mere seconds ago, I had never seen this successfully done. It was a desperate act." The dragon priest sighed. It sounded a little odd, with his sort of voice. "I apologize if I caused you undue despair."

Had he caused undue despair? Thorald lowered his hand slowly. Thought the question over for a second. "… No, it's fine. I flirt with death all the time anyway. What do we do now?"

Miraak paused for a couple of seconds. Then he dismissed his ethereal armor, and reached up, lowered his hood—and pulled away his golden metal mask.

Underneath was the face of a perfectly ordinary Nord-looking man. A little rugged and roughened with age, but not particularly remarkable in any way. His hair was short, fair in color, and a bit messy. His skin was pale, but no more than anyone who spent little time in the sun. The rest of him was still covered in his robes, but the illusion of inhuman power was broken. He really looked like he could have been any stranger on the road.

And his expression was one of deep, melancholy contemplation. His mind must have been someplace very far away.

Thorald supposed that he must have given a similar feeling in removing his own helmet. The Black Machine armor had always been so imposing and expressionless. To see the person underneath must have been a bit of a surprise.

When Miraak finally spoke, his voice sounded entirely ordinary too. Still kind of deep, but there was no strange reverberation, no undercurrent of power. Just a normal man saying normal things. "That's a very good question. I can't say for sure. I know you'll want to find your brothers-in-arms, and go on to do your Black Machine duties afterward. But really? … I don't know. Jyggalag saved me because he needed my help. Now I don't know."

Thorald nodded silently. They'd won a major victory against Alduin just now. But it was only one battle in a far greater war. The challenges of the future remained very much unknown.

That said, it looked like Miraak wasn't thinking only about challenges related to strategy.

The robed man looked down at the mask in his hand. Another couple seconds passed as he examined it. "… I really don't think much of this mask. Most of my attire is from an earlier time, but this was made with Hermaeus Mora's inspiration."

"Now he's dead," Thorald said. "And you're here."

Miraak stared at him silently, paused again in thought. Then he slowly, tentatively began to smile. "You… are absolutely right. I am the master of my own fate now."

Then he raised the mask over his head, and with a grunt of effort, flung it out into the air over the mountainside. Thorald watched as it tumbled and fell down to a distant landing somewhere down below, far out of sight.

When he turned back, Miraak's eyes were welling up with tears. He was still smiling, but… he was shedding tears as well.

"This was all I ever wanted," he said, very quietly. "I'm… I'm truly free now, aren't I?"

Thorald smiled gently. "You can do anything you like, Miraak."

Miraak opened his mouth to speak, then paused and looked at him curiously. When he spoke again, his voice was back to a more normal register. "That's not truly my name, you know. It was given to me by the Dragon Cult. My mother named me Alrik."

"… Huh." Thorald wasn't sure whether to feel surprised. "Well, Alrik, it's definitely a pleasure to meet you. And you can still do whatever you like. I won't stop you."

"Ahh. Whatever I would like to do." The man—Alrik—smiled again. "I suppose in the coming days, I will need to discover for myself what that will be."

It was truly a remarkable experience, to cross paths with Alrik at the end of such a long tale of struggles. Thorald doubted anything he'd experienced—not even in Northwatch Keep, where his life had changed forever—could come close to whatever otherworldly trials Alrik had undergone. Yet here they were.

And in this moment, Thorald was the only witness to Alrik's first moment of real freedom. If he didn't have anything else demanding his attention, he might have liked to stay here a while longer. Unfortunately, he did.

"That said, I do have one more request for now."

Alrik waved a hand at him invitingly. "Please."

Before answering, Thorald put his helmet back on. His ears had been getting cold anyway. "Well, you put us on this really remote mountainside. Would you mind teleporting me a little closer to my squadmates?"


	58. Gelebor 12

Fredas, 4:23 PM, 78th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Ruins of Bthalft

The stars had been shining all day. It was mid-afternoon, the sun had yet to even begin to set, and the stars were all still there from the early morning. The brightness of the sky around them was inconsequential.

On the way here, Gelebor and his companions had struggled through the Throat of the World's southern pass. It had presented quite the variety of strange obstacles. Frostbite spiders blocking their path (they'd actually fought them this time), mysterious piles of snow on the road, even impact craters from shooting stars. There were a great deal of those on the mountainside.

They had also struggled with putting three people on two horses. They had ended up putting Teldryn and Vidrald both on Sera, and Gelebor and all of their gear in saddlebags on Sunset. Fortunately, neither horse seemed to mind. But it certainly made for a somewhat slower ride.

Two days ago, late in the evening, they had arrived in the village of Ivarstead. As always, Gelebor had found the village quite charming. But they had not stayed long. From there, it had been a short journey south-southeast through the cool, breezy forests of the Rift, towards the spot marked on Vidrald's map.

And now, in mid-afternoon of the 78th of Second Seed, they approached a lone, mysterious Dwemer structure in the woods. The elevated stonework was visible from nearly half a mile away, even through the collective cover of the trees. Not long after, a Dwemer metal object became visible on top.

"Well, here we are," Teldryn proclaimed, breaking the silence of their afternoon's journey. "What do you think?"

Vidrald said, "Let's tether our horses here. We'd best not bring them too close, for their own good."

Gelebor frowned. "Rather unsafe, isn't that? Leaving them out here in the open, unattended?"

But the Nord laughed aloud at the question. "I think you're severely underestimating how fearsome the horses of Skyrim are when crossed. No, they'll be fine, I'm sure of it. Let us proceed."

And with that, the three of them dismounted, and tethered Sera and Sunset to a pair of smaller trees in the vicinity, close enough for them to be able to reach each other. Gelebor gave Sunset a reassuring stroke down the mane before stepping away.

As they walked towards the Dwemer ruin, Teldryn said, "Now, be sure to double-check that you have all four shards, Vidrald."

Vidrald did not answer.

"… Because it would be a shame if we went all the way there and realized that we'd missed one."

"You're very funny, Teldryn," Gelebor said flatly.

The Dunmer shrugged. "Humor staves off the worst of nervousness, I find. And if I'm to be honest? I'm quite nervous right now. Everything we've done will hinge on what happens today."

As the group approached, the Dwemer stonework ahead became more clearly visible. It turned out to belong to an irregular, tiered platform, with stairways around the sides leading up to a large, central circular dais. Upon the dais stood a metal sculpture on a pedestal, consisting of a strange ringed assembly that seemed to be part astrolabe and part gyro. A metal arrow ran through its center, which might have been intended to evoke some sort of symbolic value, though Gelebor knew not what.

But before any of them could comment on the sight before them, a distant yet familiar voice spoke: "Hi again, sweeties."

Gelebor looked over his shoulder. The ghost of Katria was standing right behind them, smiling wryly.

"Oh, what have I done," Vidrald sighed despairingly, before breaking into a smile himself. "Looks like we made it, Katria."

"Not quite. There'll be something down there, and I don't know exactly what. But there's no way I'd ever want to miss this." Katria pointed up at the metal sculpture. "First things first."

With that, the group of four proceeded towards the nearest stairs, and up to the stone platforms above.

This area had once been used as a camp of some sort—that much was clear. There were still wooden platforms and stairways added to the stone here and there, with crude shelters and boxes and bedrolls all still laid out. They had clearly been exposed to the elements for quite some time, being covered in dirt and leaves, but they were otherwise undisturbed.

The stone platforms were also strewn with half a dozen bleached skeletons. They had clearly belonged to this camp's former inhabitants. Some were adorned with the tattered remains of clothing and armor.

It was plainly obvious that these skeletons were here as the result of violence. One of them—an Orc skeleton, by the look of its teeth—had been shorn cleanly through the front of its ribcage, far too uniformly to have happened accidentally after its death. Another particularly large skeleton actually had an intact crossbow bolt imbedded in its skull. Gelebor couldn't imagine what sort of altercation had led to this result.

Vidrald strode right up to the sculpture on its pedestal, then promptly unslung his pack and started pulling out shards of Aetherium. He seemed to know what to do already. Each time he took out a shard, he laid it down in some sort of structure at the sculpture's base, directly atop the pedestal it was mounted on.

Gelebor walked over in time to see the third shard go in. There was a recessed, circular space in the sculpture's metal base, ringed by a hollow gear, and some green glass-like surfaces beneath. The shards were fitting neatly into the gear itself, and every time Vidrald added one, the gear rotated to a new orientation.

Whatever this was, it was meant to happen. He watched silently.

When the Nord added the last shard, the gear turned once more, and then halted. A few seconds went by. Nothing.

Katria reappeared on the pedestal's other side, and peered down at it. "Hm. I'd be fascinated by seeing all of the shards in one place, but we're missing something here. Try taking it out?"

"You mean the gear? The entire thing?" Vidrald paused, then shrugged. "If you say so."

With that, he reached in with both hands and pried the entire gear free. It came out with practically no resistance at all.

Then the ground shook beneath them.

"Oh, gods, get back!" Katria promptly jumped back off the dais and retreated to a lower platform. Gelebor and Vidrald did much the same.

As the snow elf moved away, he thought quickly. The last time they'd felt the ground do something like this, it had been in Arkngthamz. And in that case, it had torn everything in the city apart. Right now, there were three possibilities: One, this was working as intended, and the way to Bthalft would soon be revealed. Two, this was working as intended, but as some sort of trap. Three, this was _not_ working as intended, and everything was about to fall apart.

He wished he had some better way to prepare for any of these. As it stood, all he could do was brace himself and watch.

What followed next was completely, utterly unprecedented. The dais simply rose out of the ground. It rose up on a thick, solid, ornate stone column, and rose up more, and more, and more, making the earth tremble around it the entire time, until an entire tower had arisen from the ground out of nothing.

The moment the tower stopped, the earth went still again. It was done.

Gelebor stared. No words came to mind.

"Well, now I'm fascinated," Katria quipped dryly. "Is everyone all right?"

"Just fine," Teldryn nodded as he walked up. He'd been down at the bottom of the platform when the tower had arisen. Now he approached with all of his usual poise. More likely than not, he was actually quite awestruck, by his own earlier admission. But that wasn't slowing anybody down.

Vidrald started circling around the tower. He still had the gear in its hands. The Aetherium shards now formed a solid circle within its once-empty space. "Let's get moving, shall we?"

The tower's bottom portion was adorned with an open gateway. Gelebor followed along with Vidrald to look inside. There was a circular chamber inside, filling the majority of the tower's space. And in the middle of the floor was a single lever.

"Well, would you look at that," Katria murmured. "A Dwemer lift. I've seen cleverly hidden entrances before, but this is something else entirely."

Without further ado, the four of them stepped inside. There was plenty of room to stand around, at least. There was also a lamp overhead, which helped.

This was Gelebor's first time inside a Dwemer lift. He wasn't entirely sure what to expect, besides that they would likely be going deep into the ground shortly. On some level, he found himself rather discomforted by the thought of delving so far into the intricacies of Dwemer secrets. But that thought could wait for later.

Vidrald pushed the lever to one side, and a barred gate swung shut behind them. A moment later, an unseen mechanism hissed into motion around them, and the floor sank down from beneath Gelebor's feet.

It was an uncanny feeling. Compared to truly falling, this was far slower. And Gelebor was still standing on solid ground. But as he stood here, he was watching the ground outside the lift rise up from the floor to the ceiling—and then they were underground, with nothing around them but shaped stone walls.

"Well, now," Teldryn said, audibly holding back a tremor in his voice. "This is… this is certainly new, isn't it?"

Vidrald was looking around the interior of the moving chamber with something resembling awe. "Mzulft, Bthar-zel and Arkngthamz… and we managed to go the whole time without ever encountering a Dwemer lift."

Katria, meanwhile, looked entirely unfazed. She was standing there with her arms folded, entirely motionless but for the ethereal mist wafting off her ghostly form.

"These are pretty normal," she said after a minute or so. "But I wonder how deep we're descending. If they wanted a secret facility, they could have done down a hundred feet and left it at that. We passed that depth a while ago."

Gelebor remained silent. He couldn't bring himself to be particularly awed by the thought of simply going very deep underground. But perhaps Katria had a point. More likely than not, this lift wasn't here simply to take them away from the surface—it was to deliver them someplace very specific beneath the earth.

Minute after minute passed by. The stone walls of the vertical shaft continued to rise around them, now at a frighteningly rapid rate. At this point, Gelebor suspected, an instant stop would have likely been potentially lethal.

Nobody spoke further. There was so little idea of what to prepare for. After a while, Vidrald tried fitting the Aetherium crest—within in its metal gear, that was—into his pack. Its teeth made it too wide to go in with the rest of his items, however, so he gave up and simply held it under his arm.

Eventually, after some indeterminate length of time, the lift did begin to slow down. Gelebor could feel the increased pressure on his legs. It was another entire minute or so, though, before the deceleration finally came to a halt. After so much time spent looking at nothing but stone walls, it actually surprised him a bit when a new doorway rose up into view.

The barred doors opened on their own. There was nothing to do but to simply walk on out.

On the other side was an additional chamber, no larger than the lift interior itself, with an open arch on the right, a barred wall on the left, and another barred door in front. This one was lever-operated. While Vidrald walked over and opened it, Gelebor stopped and looked around at the walls.

What lay on the other side was not what Gelebor had expected. He had wanted to absolve himself of all expectation entirely, but still, he had thought this would be a Dwemer ruin. Instead, it was a natural cavern. The lift exited onto a stone staircase, which descended down to a rough stone path into the sheer darkness ahead. Only the lamps just by the lift exit were lit. Beyond them was a pitch-black expanse of unknown size.

And there was something else different in here. Something in the air. It felt… warmer. But not in the sense of being warmed by sunlight, or by fire, or even by steam. It was subtler than that, yet harsher also. Like somewhere, far away, some ancient thing had cracked apart from its own sheer overwhelming heat, and this was its most distant echo.

At least, that was Gelebor's impression. Whatever it was, it was making his hairs stand on end.

The group proceeded out the doors in complete silence. In the distance, somewhere, was the roaring sound of a huge flow of water. But all that was visible now was a rough paved path over an ancient slope of dirt.

As they proceeded past the brazier, another one lit up shortly ahead. Another one followed after that. They simply came to life all on their own, one by one, as the group came close to each. And with the increased light, it became faintly apparent just how large this underground space was.

The braziers lit up the very nearest walls of the cavern, and that was it. The rest of the walls remained unseen. They must have been incredibly far away, to remain in the dark even now. This place was pitch dark, and utterly vast.

After they passed the second brazier, Teldryn fired up a magelight spell and tossed it upwards and outwards. It traveled through the air … and traveled through the air … and eventually winked out without ever stopping against anything.

"Oh, gods," he murmured. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"

Katria replied, much more calmly, "The Aetherium Forge. That's what I think this place is, at least. I can't believe it either. We're finally here."

"Wherever here is," Gelebor added under his breath.

Meanwhile, the path took them out over a natural rock bridge, right over the sound of the rushing water. He didn't want to imagine what would happen if one of them fell off. But the bridge in turn led to what seemed to be the top of a freestanding pillar of stone, which was a fair bit wider. This gave them something of a vantage point.

The path continued up to an illuminated area in the far distance, previously hidden from view. Meanwhile, Gelebor could see over the edge enough to observe a very faint, distant, constant movement below. The water, he thought. The running water, coming from somewhere else in the cavern, and draining to someplace else in kind.

Where was there to drain to at this depth? He hadn't the faintest clue.

As before, there was nothing to do but proceed as before. At this point, the braziers stopped, so Teldryn moved to the front of the group and cast a candlelight spell to keep the path illuminated. Their path was lit up for the next twenty feet or so, with nothing but the spell's stark white light. Beyond that was only darkness.

Before long, darkness stretched behind them as well as ahead. Gelebor found himself feeling less afraid, exactly, than simply uncomfortable.

Teldryn renewed his candlelight spell every so often, always before the last casting had expired. That was wise of him. Fewer things would have been less fortunate than being caught on this bridge in pitch darkness.

Soon, however, they had crossed past the breadth of the water below, and entered a direct path to the illuminated area in the distance. The rocky surface in front of them sloped up into a wall, which suggested they'd reached the far side of the cavern.

Gelebor turned and looked back at the way they'd come. The braziers were no more than orange dots in the blackness, illuminating tiny spots around them in the great abyss. He had to admit—fewer sights were more unsettling than that.

Up ahead, the illuminated area was much closer by. He could clearly see a huge Dwemer-made stairway, leading up to some higher area out of sight. At the very center of the stairs, just past the top of the steps, stood a great mass of brown brambles on a single trunk. A tree. A long-dead one, at that.

Admittedly, having spent so long in the Chantry of Auri-El, Gelebor knew rather little of Dwemer culture. But it was his understanding that during their time, they had always prized trees as status symbols. A tree of this size would have been a massive statement of power.

In case it wasn't obvious enough that they had successfully located the Aetherium forge.

It was another minute or so before they reached the stairs, and another half-minute before they climbed to the top. This put them on a broad stone platform, lit up with soft golden light from some ambient source. Directly ahead was a vertical wall adorned with a single gate, in the fashion of the Arkngthamz vault. This one was perhaps a bit smaller. But it did have a very familiar feature.

"Another tonal lock," Katria said. The two recessed mechanisms were about halfway up the wall, on either side of the central portion with the door.

"If only we had one of those red draugr here to open it for us," Vidrald said.

Teldryn asked, "Do you suppose arrows will do?"

"Worth a try," Katria shrugged. "Not all of the tonal locks are as touchy as those ones at the Arkngthamz vault. I had to smack my way through a few of them to even get as far as the vault in the first place. You know, what with not having fancy levitation spells handy."

The Dunmer scoffed good-naturedly. "Now, now, don't be jealous. You can still do the honors for us. Your bow still works, doesn't it?"

"It should. We're in a peculiar situation where we have two Zephyrs between us all." Katria gestured to Gelebor—or rather, to the bow on his back. Then she unslung the ethereal bow from her own, and nocked a similarly transparent arrow from her quiver. "But I'm not about to run out of arrows. Perks of being a ghost. You can just save yours."

With that, Katria sent off two arrows, one after another, straight at the glass-adorned paddles of the tonal lock shafts. Both of them rotated into position when struck, their chambers shining bright green in confirmation. Once that was done, the gate swung open on its own.

The ghost kept her bow out as she began to lead the way ahead. "Now it's time for the big moment," she said. "Stay close. Chances are, the Dwemer left behind some surprises for anyone who tried to use this forge without their approval."

As they all followed along, Vidrald asked, "What makes you say that?"

"Are you kidding? This is a Dwemer ruin. They'd have put traps on their kitchen cupboard doors, if the traps could fit inside."

Beyond the gate was a winding path through a few nondescript corridors. Nondescript, that was, besides the mounting heat. As the noise of the water receded behind them, that sensation in the air slowly but surely grew. Whatever it was, they were coming very close.

Then they reached a sizable, descending staircase, and at its bottom was the final room. It was a spacious, roughly square chamber, with two low platforms on either near corner adorned with great pipes running along their edges. Each of the four corners of the room was held up with a freestanding support column, spaced some distance away from the walls. In the center of the room was a massive, metal grate, producing constant, strangely billowing patterns of steam.

And beyond it was the Aetherium Forge itself. A massive, towering, incomprehensible-looking device of pipes and pistons, made all of metal, save for a stream of brilliant orange magma pouring from a high central spout into a low reservoir.

Besides the forge and its surrounding frame, there was no back wall to the room. On either side, the floor trailed off into a glowing orange sea, patterned with dark spots of slightly-cooled stone. That was the source of the heat. And it was what the lift had traveled so far down to reach. A whole segment of natural cavern, filled with nothing but magma.

This was how Aetherium was manipulated. Gelebor may not have been fond of the Dwemer, but he had to give credit where it was due—their ability to blend mundane machinery with arcane mystery was nothing short of an art.

"I never thought I'd see this," Katria said quietly, before composing herself and looking around the room. "Let's see if we can get rid of that steam. If it's coming from a grate, that means it's coming on purpose. So there's probably a valve someplace."

Vidrald asked, "You don't suppose we could just skip around it to the forge?"

"No, look." The ghost pointed with her free hand at the Aetherium Forge itself. "The pistons up top aren't moving. It needs steam, but the steam's obviously getting diverted. Let's take a look around. The Dwemer had to use this thing too, the valve can't be far."

"And be on the lookout for automatons," Gelebor said.

In the end, it turned out that there were two valves, one on each platform. Great big red wheels, set into the massively thick pipe that ran along each platform's edge. But the platforms also offered a vantage point. The walls on either side of the room were adorned with additional barred gates, these ones closed with no evident opening mechanism nearby. Beyond them were short ramps up to very visible metal cylinders in the floor and walls. It went without saying what this meant for the valves.

And so the group split up. Vidrald pulled out his ebony axe with his right hand, and joined Gelebor on the left. Teldryn drew his new mace in kind, and followed Katria up to the right. Meanwhile, Gelebor and Katria both knelt down in front of their respective wheels.

"On three," the ghost called over. "One, two—"

Gelebor gave the wheel a firm counter-clockwise shove. It didn't budge, so he promptly tried clockwise, and the wheel yielded for a full turn. Then it stopped in place, and the steam in the room's center grate faded away.

The moment the steam cut off, something sent a tremor through the ground once more. Something behind them. The snow elf twisted around just in time to see the entryway staircase dropping down into the floor, step by step in rapid succession. Not even five seconds later, the staircase had been transformed into a flat hallway ending with a vertical wall, plus an open ceiling to the way they'd come.

If only Arkngthamz had contained such a trap. Then its earthquakes might have actually been successful in killing intruders. Here, Gelebor and his companions were cursed with the pains of superior Dwemer design.

A moment after that, a chorus of metallic noises echoed throughout the room. Gelebor rose to his feet and drew an arrow with Zephyr before he even saw what was coming—but he knew something was coming, without a doubt.

The first wave of automatons was four Dwemer spider workers. They scuttled out from their spots behind the doors, and went straight for the nearest living enemies. Some of them had come out directly onto the platforms. For at least a few of these, the nearest living enemy was Gelebor himself.

He wouldn't lose his nerves now. On some level, he direly wanted to, but this was hardly the time. History was being made today. All Gelebor had to do was perform well.

"Hah, just spiders?" Katria called out to no one in particular. "If that's the best they can do, this should take about one minute!"

"Don't worry," Vidrald called back. "It's most assuredly not."

Gelebor had exactly twenty-four arrows in his quiver. He didn't see a great deal of use in expending them on these spiders, especially at this range. So as he stood back up, he slung Zephyr on his shoulder again, and switched to his Prelate's Mace.

The moment he did, one of the spiders lunged at him. He blocked it midair with the haft of his weapon, knocking it back onto the ground, before coming down with a massive overhead swing. The gyro assembly on top broke apart just as easily as he remembered.

In that moment, the whole room erupted into sounds of combat. Vidrald was fending off a couple spiders at once, and there was no doubt some great spectacle on the other platform as well. Gelebor finished his spider off with a second strike, then focused his attention on the others.

Vidrald seemed to have something of a working strategy against these. Whenever they lunged at him, he'd lash out with his axe and deflect them away entirely, damaging their extremities bit by bit in the process. It seemed to be taking him a while, so Gelebor stepped in and brought the flanged head of his mace smashing down on the nearer spider. The spider promptly exploded in a stinging, blinding shower of lightning.

"Ouch," the snow elf said dully. He was feeling an uncomfortable tingling all over his front. But it was nothing some healing magic couldn't remedy. As he cast the restoration spell in his free hand, he asked, "Vidrald, are you all right?"

At that exact moment, the remaining spider leapt up at the Nord once more. He responded by swatting it out of the air with a well-placed blow of his axe, then flipping the weapon backward in his hand and swinging its spike down into the spider's gyro assembly. The spider was immediately transfixed.

"Well, doing this all one-handed isn't so fun," he grunted, before planting his foot on the spider's inert form and prying free his axe. Sure enough, he was still holding onto the Aetherium crest under his left arm. "But I'm all right, thanks."

A couple seconds later, a destruction spell audibly discharged from across the room. Gelebor turned just in time to see one of the other spiders get hit by a flying ice spike. Teldryn's doing, of course. That slowed it down just enough for the Dunmer to finish the job with a swing of his own mace.

At that moment, something audibly shifted inside the pipes nearby, and the steam resumed rising from the floor grate. Gelebor grunted in dismay and crouched down to retighten the valve.

As he did, more metallic noises came from around the room. Quite a few more.

Suddenly, something glanced hard off the back of his helmet. Gelebor didn't realize what it was until he turned and looked for its source.

Dwemer spheres. There were two of them, right here on the platform. One had just tried to put a crossbow bolt through Gelebor's skull.

Needless to say, the snow elf was certainly glad for his armor coverage. His Chantry attire hadn't even included a helmet at all!

Both of the spheres were focused on him. They rolled forwards with an incredible speed. As they did, Gelebor noticed a few additional spiders crawling around on the floor below. Those would be joining the fight soon.

Unfortunately, being focused on Gelebor, the spheres neglected to prepare for anyone else. So it was hardly a surprise when Vidrald lunged in behind the one at Gelebor's right, and clove nearly straight through its upper leg with his axe. The damaged metal buckled and gave under the automaton's weight, sending the whole thing crashing down onto its side. Easy pickings for Vidrald to finish off.

But Gelebor still had a sphere rolling at him. Not half a second after Vidrald's attack, the remaining sphere lunged forward at the snow elf with its right arm outstretched. Its sword arm. It was a fast strike, but it was predictable. He'd fought these before. He knew how they worked.

And so when its sword came lunging in, he met it with an outward parry of his mace. The Dwemer blade caught under one of the flanges, and stayed there. Before the automaton could try to pull free, Gelebor took hold of his mace in his left hand, then reapplied his right hand nearly at the very top, right against the base of the flange. That gave him all the leverage he needed.

What ensued was a fast, frantic struggle to keep the blade trapped. The sphere jerked and twisted every way it could, trying to extract its weapon, but Gelebor circled around it and held on tight, constantly pulling on his mace to keep it locked up. A few times, the blade brushed against the side of his index finger, which should have cut it quite deeply—but with his gauntlets on, the metal edge barely even left a mark.

If only he knew any proper destruction spells. They would have come in such handy right now.

The struggle ended after only a few seconds. Seemingly out of nowhere, Vidrald stepped over and smashed his axe into the sphere's flank, right where its waist was narrowest. Whatever he cut through, it caused the automaton to stop in place and bend awkwardly into Gelebor's reach. A few more chops, and he had cut the thing messily in half, leaving both pieces to land on the floor.

This was just in time for the other spiders to arrive. Gelebor readjusted the grip on his mace, and busied himself with smashing them apart one by one. They never even got close enough to strike him properly.

Another crossbow bolt flew in. This one hit Vidrald in the crook of his elbow, right where the armor was weak. He shouted in pain, dropped the Aetherium crest on the floor, and wrenched the bolt back out as he turned to see its source.

They had an additional sphere coming their way, up from the far side of the platform. There seemed to be stairs on either end. And this sphere was rolling up the steps effortlessly. It was visibly larger than the last ones. This looked like a potential problem.

Gelebor promptly stepped over and cast a healing spell on the Nord before he could lose any more blood. A quick glance to the side told him that Teldryn and Katria were facing a similarly oversized automaton now. Hopefully, they were prepared to face that thing on their own. Gelebor himself was quite busy right now.

The sphere closed in on Vidrald and lunged in with a massive strike of its sword. But the blow never connected. Gelebor jumped in right as it was coming, and smashed his mace into the blade's attaching forearm struts. He might have dented one of them, it was hard to tell. But his strike succeeded in deflecting the lunge, and gave Vidrald a much-needed moment to recover.

For a moment, it looked like he'd quite well thrown the automaton off. Then it whirled around and brought its blade down hard on Gelebor instead. He managed to put his mace up in time, but the strike came down with incredible force anyway. His parry resulted only in the weapon being torn from his grip, and the automaton's sword scraping down the steel plates on his chest.

Well, now he was disarmed. This could have been going a bit better.

The sphere reared back for another strike, and dove forward again. Gelebor jumped aside and dropped to the floor right as the attack came in, leaving it to hit nothing but the air behind him. As he rolled back to his feet, he grabbed his mace back up from where it had landed—and then tossed it gently upward and caught it the other way around, since he'd accidentally grabbed it upside-down.

Again, Vidrald took advantage of the sphere's distraction. While it was preparing for its next strike, he brought his ebony axe down hard on its wheel bearings, right at the base of its left leg. Whatever it did, it resulted in a loud, crushing crack of metal against metal.

It also resulted in the sphere trying to turn around to attack him, only to catch on its damaged wheel and end up turning far too slowly. Vidrald circled steadily around the sphere's back as it went, until he was right by Gelebor's side.

"Hello again," the snow elf smiled, before lunging forward and smashing his mace into the sphere's left leg, just above where Vidrald had hit it. The sphere faltered even more.

Vidrald promptly joined him in striking again. And again, and again, as the sphere struggled to turn around to face them—until its legs couldn't support it anymore, and it toppled backwards onto the ground. The two of them spent a few more seconds simply hammering at its torso, making sure that it couldn't attack them any further, until the casing had broken apart and its machinery was well and truly disabled.

Meanwhile, Teldryn had frozen the lower joints of his sphere with a constant spray of frost magic, and Katria was methodically punching holes in its upper casing. There was little to do besides stand and watch. They were obviously dealing with the automaton quite fine enough.

Then the steam came back on. Gelebor groaned loudly and went over to turn the valve again. "Vidrald, don't forget the crest," he said on the way.

The Nord was standing idly next to him. He shrugged at the reminder. "I thought I'd leave it there till we're done. Perhaps if we'd brought some metal scrap, I could have fashioned it into an unbreakable shield, but alas."

Across from them, Teldryn was turning the other valve. He seemed quite unhappy with the development himself, but perhaps that was simply the difficulty of the fight.

Then, once again, the earth shook beneath them. Just for a moment.

Gelebor ran his free hand over his forehead, up beneath the visor of his helmet. His skin was actually a bit sweaty. "Oh, what now?"

No metallic noises came from around the walls. No automatons entered in through the gates. But something was most definitely coming. He felt it before he heard it.

That wasn't a figurative statement. Something was thudding into the ground. He could feel the faint tremors of the impacts.

Then, just to the right of the Aetherium Forge, a hulking shape burst out of the lava. Orange flecks showered in every direction, all over the walls, all over the floor. The shape was an automaton. And as it walked up into the room, the lava peeled and dripped off its metallic casing like so much water.

Calling it a centurion would have been an understatement. It had the two legs and the two arms, the latter ending with the two melee weapons—but this thing, whatever it could be called, was larger than any other of its kind. And even with the lava gone, its golden metal was accented with brightly lit markings, from head to toe, seemingly glowing with a fiery inner light.

Gelebor stared at it in silence. Then he glanced back at the stairway.

No, the stairs were still all flattened out. There would be no fleeing today.

He sighed and switched over to Zephyr. Twenty-four arrows. He wondered if he would have time to use them all.

Katria shouted, "It's the Forgemaster! I had no idea this thing was real!"

Teldryn was readying a bright white spell aura. He was standing right next to Katria, but he still shouted right back, "You could have told us a little sooner!"

The automaton—evidently, the Forgemaster—was closer to the right-side platform.

That put Teldryn and Katria directly in its line of sight. It took a few massive, stomping paces towards them, then stopped in place. A steam attack, most likely. That was what these centurions were supposed to do.

Instead, there was a blast of pure brilliant fire. It came forth from the Forgemaster's upper vents in a roaring, all-consuming jet, bathing the entire platform in a gigantic shroud of flames. It went on for a second or so, then stopped.

Katria was nowhere to be seen. Teldryn was somehow still standing right there, but his armor was looking blackened in spots. Perhaps he had just used a ward spell. Perhaps that helped against this thing.

Gelebor swallowed involuntarily. Auri-El had put him here for a reason. It couldn't have been to die right before his mission's completion.

He thought quickly. There had to be a way to keep this thing from killing them all. Anything he came up with was going to be some kind of gamble. The things he was thinking of right now could all perfectly possibly end with his own gruesome demise.

But right now, he didn't have time to second-guess.

With all the speed that Zephyr allowed, he drew back an arrow and sent it at the Forgemaster's torso. It couldn't have ever missed. But it couldn't have ever dealt any damage, either. The arrow bounced off harmlessly.

But that was enough to distract it. The automaton turned immediately toward him, and started stomping its way over across the room, straight over the metal grate.

Vidrald made a noise of consternation. "Now, what did you do _that_ for?"

Gelebor just shook his head and shouldered Zephyr once again. He'd only really needed the one arrow. It wasn't as though he expected to bring this automaton down with mere physical attacks.

He grabbed the Aetherium crest off the platform beside him, and hopped down to the floor below. The Forgemaster was still approaching.

If it was going to use its fire attack, it would likely do so right now, at this range, while Gelebor was outside its reach. And if it did that… well, he was no Dunmer. He doubted he would survive the experience, ward spell or not. So he did the thing that would keep him alive the longest, and strode right up in front of the Forgemaster before it could react.

Then he presented the Aetherium crest in front of himself. The Forgemaster stopped in place, looking impassively at him with its sculpted visage.

"I have the Aetherium," he said, in his best effort at the Dwemer language. It had been a long time since he'd had to speak it. "You are the Forgemaster. We have come to use the Forge. Stand down."

Could this automaton understand him? It seemed to recognize that he was speaking to it. While he spoke, it stood silently in front of him, seemingly waiting for him to finish his thought.

Then it raised up its hammer for a downward strike.

It'd been worth a try, at least.

But the snow elf had expected this outcome anyway. As the hammer descended, he braced the Aetherium crest against his left forearm, still holding its edge with the other hand—and lifted it over his head.

He never quite felt the impact. A light gust of air rushed over him from the incoming weapon, but that was all. All that truly struck him was the sound—the sheer, deafening sound of some massive thing fracturing and shattering and exploding all at once.

When he lowered the crest again, the Forgemaster was missing its entire right arm. There was a scattering of broken metal over the ground. Its right arm was gone, all the way up to the shoulder, and the severed spot was leaking a bright orange liquid. Glowing cracks were spreading over its chest from that spot, one fissure leading to another, as though threatening to break under its own mass.

Gelebor backed away quickly. He didn't want to be nearby for the rest of this.

The Forgemaster started to take another step forwards, but it fell heavily onto one knee instead. For a moment, the fractures continued to spread across its surfaces, passing right by joints and seams into other extremities. Then its entire casing burst violently apart, sending shards of brightly glowing metal all through the air, and leaving behind nothing but a scattered collection of twisted broken scrap.

Gelebor took the time to mentally congratulate himself for his own foresight.

A few things then happened at once. First, the stairs slid back up into place behind them. Second, the pistons of the Aetherium Forge assembly began moving. Third, Katria reappeared right by his side.

"Well, that went well," she said cheerfully. "What… what did you just do?"

"Good question," Teldryn called over, while casting a healing spell on himself. He and Vidrald were moving quickly to join them in the middle of the room.

The snow elf, for his part, simply shrugged. "Oh, well, I suspected that the Forgemaster was made using Aetherium in its construction, seeing as Dwemer metal would ordinarily melt at temperatures suitable for magma. And Aetherium is entirely indestructible, as well as resonating dangerously with similar magic. The rest was an educated guess."

"Nicely done, Gelebor." Vidrald smiled and patted him on the shoulder, then reached into his pack and pulled forth a very familiar cube-shaped object. "Shall we?"

The Aetherium Forge itself seemed simple enough to operate. There was an array of pipes and tanks and related metal objects all gathered neatly together, and at its center was a recessed space for the crest to go into, just like the one on the pedestal aboveground. It accepted the gear with its own mechanisms, then locked it away and closed a lid over itself.

Meanwhile, Vidrald put his lexicon into an appropriate slot on the left side of the machine. The cube promptly split open into its eight corner segments, revealing a bright blue floating core adorned with the central six metal faces. It rotated randomly in place, turning every which way in unpredictable patterns, while the process continued.

When Vidrald inserted the lexicon, a button revealed itself from under a convex lid, on the far side from the central recess. Teldryn obligingly leaned over and pressed it. That was nice. All three of them had been able to participate.

With that, the machine whirred to life with some deep unseen mechanisms. And there was nothing to do but wait.

"Oh, gods, we're finally doing it," Teldryn breathed. "This is incredible. I never would have thought this would work."

Katria held up a cautioning hand. "Well, it hasn't, yet. But I hope it does." With that, her tone promptly softened. "Everything we've done has led up to this moment. I put my life into the mystery of Aetherium. And now… now, I hope, it's about to be solved."

Vidrald asked, "Is this going to be the last we see of you, then?"

"Maybe." She didn't seem put off by the notion. "But perhaps we'll meet again someday. Aetherius isn't too big for that."

Something stirred in Gelebor at the sound of these words. Whatever it was, it felt less than pleasant, to the point where he doubted even in his own composure. But for Katria's sake, he swallowed whatever feeling that was, and nodded solemnly. "It's an honor to have carried on your mission in life. The things that this Aetherium will lead to… there couldn't have been a greater difference to make in the world. You did something great."

The ghost smiled warmly at him. "Thank you. I'll try not to forget that."

There was a brief time of waiting then. Gelebor hadn't the slightest clue how long the Aetherium Forge would need, but it ended up requiring only a few minutes. Then the deep whirring of the machine's insides came to a halt, and the lid opened once again.

He hadn't known what to expect of the Aetherial Lock's appearance. On some level, perhaps, he'd imagined it as looking like an actual physical lock. But the thing that rose into view was something else.

The Aetherial Lock was a collection of three bright blue Aetherium rings, flat in profile, like they had been cut out from a disc. In fact, the widest ring was almost exactly the diameter of the crest they had been made from. The rings were nested in a snug series of layers, not unlike a gyro mechanism, but without any of the connecting axles. And they were rotating constantly, in unpredictable directions, just like the lexicon core. Even the outer ring was rotating, despite that this meant the Lock was often not touching the pedestal it rested on. It floated in place all the same.

But what truly stood out weren't the rings themselves—it was what lay within them. In that spherical space, within the span of the innermost ring, Gelebor could see the stars. There was a soft, fading-edged circle of black night sky in his vision, and within it was an array of stars like he had never seen before. They were numerous, and vivid, and everywhere. And when Gelebor moved closer, the view of the stars shifted with him.

These stars weren't contained inside the Aetherial Lock. The Aetherial Lock was allowing him to view them.

The lexicon had returned to its closed position. Vidrald retrieved it and stowed it once more. He said nothing.

Meanwhile, Katria walked up to the Aetherium Forge herself, gazing at the Aetherial Lock where it rested. She reached out with her ghostly fingertips, and caressed its outer surface. They ran over the curvature of an invisible sphere at its outer diameter—the same sphere that it seemed to be resting on. From time to time, the outer ring brushed just by her fingers, the same way it brushed just by the pedestal. But it never seemed to quite truly touch anything around it.

"It's so beautiful," she whispered. "Thank you… thank you, for letting me see this. All of you. There's nothing I would have rather seen."

And with those words, Katria faded slowly from sight, until she was no more.

"Goodbye, Katria," Gelebor said quietly.

Vidrald reached out and picked up the Aetherial Lock in both hands. It was small enough that he could cradle it in one arm. The other, of course, still held his axe.

"We should go," he said, before turning towards the exit.

Teldryn nodded and moved to follow along. "As fun as all of this has been, I'm not eager to repeat today's experience. We have an item to deliver anyway, don't we?"

The stairs were just up ahead. Gelebor kept his eye on them as he walked. For some reason, he was concerned that they would all come falling back down, even with all of the automatons dealt with.

" _haal VIIK!_ "

There was no preparing for it. One moment, Gelebor was walking along, and the next, his mace had left his grasp. The wave of energy had struck him so suddenly that he barely even recognized its source.

A new figure was standing before them. A dark, nearly black figure, much like a red draugr—but not actually a draugr. Its body was lithe and smooth, covered in sleek black scales, and all of it radiating an inky black flame-like aura. And its face was a nightmarish, fanged mask, with glowing red eyes just like the draugr it commanded.

They were looking upon Alduin himself. He had come here in person to kill them. Perhaps this was a good time to finally be afraid.

Gelebor's mace bounced and clattered over the stone floor behind him. A similar fate met Vidrald's and Teldryn's weapons—as well as the Aetherial Lock. It landed on the metal grate and stayed there, its rings still spinning as before.

"You fools," the scaled figure said, in a voice that was perfectly living, yet deep and resonant beyond all mortal capacity. "Did you think you had escaped my notice?"

None of them replied. They were all busy.

Gelebor dove for his mace and picked it back up off the ground. Meanwhile, Teldryn started casting destruction spells behind him. He could hear them discharging. But he couldn't hear their results.

When he turned back around, Alduin had closed to melee range with Teldryn. He was holding a shadowy black sword that he most certainly hadn't had before. It hurt Gelebor's eyes even to look at.

But he didn't wait. He charged right back in to his companion's aid.

In that brief time, Teldryn dodged one swing, then another, ducking and twisting in improbable maneuvers to avoid the blade. Eventually, he caught Alduin's wrist in his hands, to begin to twist the weapon away. And Alduin responded by using his own free hand to grab Teldryn's throat.

Gelebor saw the entire thing as he approached. Alduin's hand came up so quickly that it knocked Teldryn's helmet right off. And it squeezed into his neck with clawed fingers, so hard that the points immediately drew blood. The Dunmer's red eyes were wide to the point of bulging. It was all he could do to keep his hands where they were, to keep that sword away from his exposed head.

At that moment, Gelebor arrived. His mace was high overhead, prepared to come down on Alduin's arm. Even if it didn't cause injury—could it, against the World-Eater?—it might have still freed Teldryn up.

But right as the strike came down, Alduin turned to look at him and snarled a " _Fus!_ " that knocked him back with a brief wave of force. That delayed him just long enough for Alduin to turn around—and fling Teldryn bodily across the entire room. The Dunmer went head over heels into the side of the right platform, and struck it with a sickening noise before falling limply to the floor.

Gelebor resumed his attack that the same time Vidrald came in. But Alduin was too fast. He effortlessly dodged Gelebor's opening strike, and caught Vidrald's ebony axe with his shadowy blade—and with an elegant twist, locked it under the axe head and tore the haft from Vidrald's grasp. The axe promptly went flying.

Alduin was about to follow it up with a lethal sword strike. That couldn't happen. Gelebor brought his mace around in an outward swing, right in the path of Alduin's own attack. And to his shock, it actually succeeded in catching the blade halfway. That gave Vidrald enough time to begin to back away and draw his dagger.

The World-Eater's response was to let go of his sword entirely, causing it to vanish into nothing, before whipping away with a backhanded strike that sent Vidrald sprawling. Then he turned —he actually turned his back to Gelebor—and grabbed the mace's haft in his left hand, sending a wave of frost over Vidrald's prone form. Not as a shout, that time, but a spell.

So he could cast spells, too. That was another complication.

Vidrald didn't even respond to the frost. He was motionless on the floor. Not a good sign.

In the brief time that it took Alduin to cast the frost spell, Gelebor was able to kick him square in the back. It sufficed to send him staggering forward a strep, and pry his grip off the Prelate's Mace in the process.

Alduin turned around and summoned his sword back into his hand. It appeared in a burst of that same inky black fire that continued to run along its length. He and Gelebor settled into a fighting stance at the same time.

So the fight for Mundus came down to the two of them.

Gelebor wondered what a good prayer might be right now. Perhaps something to the effect of, 'Auri-El, give me courage as I prepare to strike down your son for you.'

Alduin lunged in with a great, upward strike, which Gelebor easily parried. But then he twirled his blade around to the mace's other side, and the very tip scored a line down the snow elf's wrist. It bit into his skin painfully, but failed to do any real damage. It was only an opening move.

Then, as Gelebor began to step backward, he felt his muscles suddenly stiffen. He felt himself tilt backward, saw the room spin down around him, as he landed hard on his back. He couldn't move. He was paralyzed.

That was it? That was the entire duel? Despite everything, Gelebor managed to feel actually disappointed.

Alduin walked up over him, sword still in hand. He didn't say anything. He simply raised his weapon.

So this truly was it. Gelebor was willing himself to move, and nothing was happening. The paralysis effect was too strong. He was completely helpless.

Perhaps if he kept Alduin's attention long enough, Teldryn, or Vidrald, someone, he didn't know who, could grab the Aetherial Lock and flee to the surface before it was too late. He didn't know what he could do while he was paralyzed. Anything would suffice. Anything at all.

But the paralysis effect was already starting to wear off. It was a quick effect, meant only to disable. Gelebor fought to do something—and managed only to twitch his arms.

"You're not going to distract me," Alduin said, when he saw the motion. "Let's not waste time."

Gelebor closed his eyes. He knew what was coming.

The flaming black blade pierced straight into his abdomen. He felt the burning, foreign presence run him all the way through, as though his armor weren't even there, straight to his back, incising horribly into his flesh. To his surprise, the paralysis didn't renew—which gave him just enough freedom to cry out in pain.

This wasn't how he wanted to die. He didn't know what would come next, but now he faced his end, and he didn't like it one bit.

" _FUS-RO-DAH!_ "

There was a deafening crack of thunder all around him. A split second from now, he would be struck by the Thu'um's effect. Then he would be finished.

He was never struck.

The sword in his abdomen jerked sideways suddenly, then went still.

Gelebor opened his eyes. Alduin was midair above him, in the middle of a wave of force. It was traveling from right to left in front of him. And it flung the World-Eater's body straight over the room's edge, until he splashed into the magma outside.

There was an ear-splitting shriek of pain. Alduin's shadowy form was half-submerged in the molten rock, sinking quickly, and being engulfed in flame all the while. It lasted only a few seconds. And it ended with Alduin falling silent.

The sword vanished from Gelebor's abdomen.

The only sound left was a faint crackle from the magma where he'd sunk in. And even that ended shortly afterward.

Gelebor was bracing himself for Alduin to spring back out unharmed, but it didn't happen. Seconds stretched by, and nothing happened. He used the opportunity to cast a healing spell on himself. Blood was leaking out inside his armor, but the flow stopped quickly.

Soon, he had regained enough control to sit back up and look around. Vidrald was on the other side of the room, pouring the contents of a vial down an unconscious Teldryn's throat. And Alduin was still nowhere to be seen.

He felt he was in a bit of a daze. But still, he couldn't waste time. He stowed his mace on his belt, picked up the Aetherial Lock in both hands—it felt strangely glassy, and nearly weightless to the touch—and began to walk over to his companions.

When he arrived, Teldryn's eyes were open. The Dunmer was mumbling something under his breath, not quite intelligibly.

Vidrald accepted the Aetherial Lock when Gelebor offered it. For some reason, it simply felt better for Vidrald to be the one carrying it. Perhaps because he had been the one to begin the mission for the Aetherium to begin with.

"Thank you," the Nord said. "I think we're safe now."

Now that the moment was passing, questions were coming to mind. So many questions. Gelebor didn't even know where to begin. He fumbled for words. "What… I don't… ah… What just happened? Did you…?"

"Kill Alduin? I hope so." Vidrald nodded. "I wasn't sure if that would work. But I do believe it's over."

"If what would work, now?" Teldryn still sounded a bit groggy. He was struggling to push himself up to his feet.

Gelebor reached out and helped him up the rest of the way. "Alduin was right in the middle of starting to kill me. Then someone did something, and sent him into the magma. Was that a Thu'um?"

As he listened on, Teldryn cast a healing spell on himself. That seemed to help him somewhat. He was standing up straighter, at least.

Vidrald nodded gravely. "Yes, it was. Unrelenting Force. It's one of a few I know."

"Wait. Wait, wait, hold on." Teldryn held up his hands. The look on his face was somewhere between bafflement and suspicion. "Since when can you do Thu'ums? You're not a Tongue."

But the Nord shook his head and sighed.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you both."


	59. Gelebor 13

Fredas, 4:49 PM, 78th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Aetherium Forge

"I am truly sorry," Vidrald said. "When I learned about the Aetherium, I realized I would need to seek the aid of others in finding it. But my identity is forfeit. I had to become someone I'm not."

Gelebor held up his hands. He was missing something crucial here, he knew it. "What does this have to do with your using a Thu'um?"

"Not many people can. I happened to train with the Greybeards earlier in life. But when Skyrim called for me once again, I adopted the name of one of my fallen lieutenants, and resumed my work anew."

"You," Teldryn whispered. His eyes were wide in shock. "You're Ulfric Stormcloak."

Memories came flooding back to Gelebor all at once. All their discussions of the late leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion, the upstart Jarl of Windhelm who'd led Skyrim into war against itself. And if Vidrald was to be believed, he _was_ that figure. Yet by all rights he should have been dead by now.

The man didn't deny it. He simply nodded grimly and continued. "I never did end up dying. I spent a while in Sovngarde, but only as a guest. My duty is here, In Skyrim, serving my homeland. It's all I've had to live for now."

And there was no disproving him. It was entirely common knowledge that Jarl Ulfric had possessed the power of the Voice. And here, the person claiming to be him had just used it to end the fight with Alduin. How many mortals in Skyrim had this power? Gelebor couldn't deny what he was hearing. But he was hearing it awfully late.

It seemed the Nord was thinking about the same thing, because he added, "I apologize for not telling you. A major reason I did was because I knew our enemies would be watching, and listening. If Alduin had known to prepare for me, my attack would have failed."

As Teldryn listened, his shocked look gave way to a terrible snarling scowl. "You… You, you, you. You _liar_. You're Ulfric Stormcloak. You were Ulfric Stormcloak, and you never said it!"

"Yes," the Nord said patiently. "Or at least, I was. That man is dead now. Everyone else believes him to be. I believe he should be, too."

"No, you're alive, you son of a bitch, you MURDEROUS—" And then, before he could even finish his own sentence, Teldryn lunged forward and grabbed Ulfric by the throat.

Gelebor promptly jumped in and pried him back off from behind. Teldryn was thrashing every which way, trying to break free, while the Nord just stood there and rubbed his neck. This was chaos. This was total chaos. They'd gone on this entire journey, and for _this?_

"Stop it," the snow elf said, as calmly as he could manage. "Stop. We've killed enough already, stop it, Teldryn."

Teldryn grunted and pushed futilely against his grip. He didn't seem to be even trying very hard to break away.

"I would have told you the truth if I'd had the choice," Ulfric said. "But I will admit, this was the other reason. The reputation I left behind was of a man who deserved death. I couldn't let that happen. All I've ever wanted was what was best for Skyrim and her people."

Teldryn began to growl wordlessly, but suddenly it turned into a horrible, shrieking cry of rage and grief. "YOU! MURDERER! You can't lie to me! I _lived_ in the Gray Quarter, you son of a bitch! I watched good people _starve to death_ because of you! You never cared about anyone but your own—gods-damned—Nords!"

Gelebor still didn't let go. He didn't consider it safe to do so yet. No matter what, he wasn't going to let his companions simply kill one another. But right now, he was struggling to remember what the Gray Quarter even was. Something in Windhelm, he thought. A place for Dunmer to live, he thought? That must have been it.

And Teldryn had lived there. And he'd seen the Jarl of Windhelm's handiwork. This wasn't about Ulfric lying to them about his identity. It was about something much worse than that.

Ulfric looked down at the ground before him. Whatever this was, Teldryn's words were cutting more deeply than any wound he'd ever reacted to. He took a long, shuddering breath in, and nodded. "It was a mistake. I made a mistake, rallying my kinsfolk that way. They feared the presence of foreigners, so I allowed them that fear, and they followed me. And… I knew it wasn't all right. And in hindsight, no, I can't justify it. And it was all for nothing in the end. I should have died."

"But you didn't," Gelebor said. "How?"

The Nord's answer was simple: "The Dragonborn spared me."

"That's—impossible—" Teldryn's anger hadn't subsided in the slightest. It was nothing short of frightening to see. "The Dragonborn _killed_ you!"

"That is what most of Skyrim believes, yes. In truth, he sent me off to wait in Sovngarde, without killing me in the process, simply so I could wait to serve Skyrim in its next hour of need. He thought I still had some use left."

Gelebor searched for words. He knew that what Ulfric was saying wasn't going to be enough. But perhaps he could say something himself, something to make this a little more bearable, to keep them together a while longer.

And as he thought of what to say, the realization suddenly hit him. The three of them were no longer a single group. Nothing would repair this rift. All he could do was try to keep them all alive a little longer.

"Please, Teldryn. We've come through so much together. If you insist on killing him… well, you'll have to kill me too. Because I don't believe Auri-El sent me here to watch you slay one another. Not for anything."

"You don't understand," Teldryn breathed. The fury hadn't left his voice in the slightest. "This man is a murderer. You don't know what it was like in the Gray Quarter. You, Ulfric, _you_ let my people starve—Gelebor, have you ever seen a starving child? Have you seen what they look like, by the end? They're nothing but skeletons with skin. Little undersized skeletons, just barely clinging to life, until they finally—let go—"

Ulfric shook his head. "You can't kill me now, whether you like it or not. You still need me to deliver this to the Dragonborn."

With that, he held up the Aetherial Lock in his hands. And that effectively brought their argument to an end. Ulfric was the only one to know what to do with that device, once they left this place. Without him, their entire mission so far—even up to slaying Alduin himself—was pointless, and Mundus would be doomed to the same fate.

Teldryn went suddenly still. He remained that way for a few seconds, staring silently at the Aetherial Lock, breathing hard and deep. Then he twisted out from Gelebor's grasp and stepped aside.

"Fine," he snapped. "Deliver your precious artifact. With any luck, the Dragonborn will give you what you deserve this time."

With that, he strode away to collect his mace and helmet. Ulfric used the opportunity to retrieve his axe as well. That left Gelebor standing in place all by himself.

So this was how his mission was fated to end. His two companions had known one another for even longer than they'd known him. And they had been his guides through the world of the Fourth Era, right from the beginning of his journey.

And Teldryn had drawn him that map of Skyrim. He still had its two torn pieces, folded away in his pack.

Now he was beginning to understand what the future would bring.

The three of them left the Aetherium Forge behind without a word. Teldryn led the way, back up through the corridors, down past the great tree, and into the darkness of the cavern path. The water was still running below, the braziers were still burning in the distance—everything here was the same. But now, it felt completely different. It felt like it had to be left behind, for better or for worse.

Gelebor remained a short distance behind him, walking alongside Ulfric, with a hand on the man's wrist. That was mainly for his safety. It sickened him somewhat to be doing this, but he couldn't trust Teldryn now to restrain himself. Ulfric didn't even argue to having his wrist held. If nothing else, it would make him harder to shove off the bridge.

But the Dunmer didn't so much as turn around. Not for a second. He walked the whole way from the Aetherium Forge to the lift chamber as though he were the only one down here. There was nothing to do but follow him.

Even when he pulled the lever on the lift floor, and they began their ascent to the surface, he kept his back turned, his fists clenched at his sides. There was no telling what thoughts were going through his head right then, but Gelebor could speculate. On the other hand, he didn't want to. Whatever memories Teldryn had of the Gray Quarter in Windhelm—seeing a child starve? Teldryn must have been destitute himself, to witness such a thing without intervening.

It was unbelievable to think that any Jarl could allow that to happen within their own city. Even Jarl Skald, unreasonable and skewed as he was, had seemed interested in the safety of Dawnstar. And by any account, Windhelm wasn't a generally poor city. The only way Gelebor could imagine any of its people actually _starving_ was if the Jarl simply hadn't been paying attention.

Minutes went by in uncomfortable silence. At Gelebor's side, Ulfric was standing with his head hung low, looking downward at the floor, not even bothering to hide his resignation. Gelebor wondered what thoughts were going through _his_ head as well.

All of Skyrim believed this man to be dead. It was the knowledge of his death, his permanent removal from the world, that had ended the Stormcloak Rebellion and reunited Skyrim under one banner. But the Dragonborn had seen fit to secretly spare him, and eventually allow him to resume working in the world, this time anonymously.

No wonder he had declined to follow Gelebor and Teldryn to Whiterun. And before that, he had steered clear of Solitude when they'd come nearby to Dragon Bridge. In the larger cities, he would have risked someone recognizing him.

In fact, someone nearly had, hadn't they? That drunken Nord in Rorikstead, the one who had identified Ulfric as a former Stormcloak. Yes, that was right. Ulfric Stormcloak was a former Stormcloak. It was a great stroke of luck that the Nord hadn't identified him any more clearly.

Or perhaps Ulfric had made a habit of disguising himself as subordinate officers anyway. Gelebor couldn't bring himself to ask right then.

If nothing else, Gelebor was finding that he didn't particularly mind Ulfric having kept this secret from him. Simply put, it made sense. If he had been open about his identity, this entire mission would have failed here today. This was even disregarding how much trouble he would have had in recruiting any followers. It was clear that Alduin had been watching them from afar for some time, to know to come for them in Bthalft.

Ulfric himself had said it well. If Alduin had known to prepare for him, his attack would have failed. The only way he had been able to keep the weapon of his Thu'um a secret from the World-Eater had been by keeping a secret from his allies also.

Perhaps he did deserve punishment for his deeds as the Jarl of Windhelm. But even if that judgment were Gelebor's to administer, it seemed wrong to visit suffering on him when he was already trying to atone. That would amount to little more than sheer, indulgent retaliation.

Eventually, the lift did slow to a halt, and the sunlight of the outdoors flooded in through the gates as they emerged into view. The moment they opened, Gelebor began to turn to step outside—only to be pushed out of the way by Teldryn.

The Dunmer strode right out into the open, out on the stone platform of Bthalft's surface ruin, and then turned around to face them. The look on his face was inscrutable. "I'm only going to say this once," he said, his voice barely level. "You can deliver your precious artifact all you like. But I'm done here. I didn't come here to be lied to, and I didn't come here to work for the man who left my people to rot."

Gelebor said nothing. What was he meant to do, request that Teldryn stay with them? He'd known this was coming. But hearing it out loud now, he still felt a terrible growing weight in his chest. This was how their mission had been fated to end.

"I know nothing I say now can set this right," Ulfric said. His voice was as smooth and steady as ever, but Gelebor had never heard it so dejected. "But I am sorry. For all of it. If we are to part ways today, I hope you can leave with the knowledge that I have to live with what I've done."

Teldryn shook his head slowly, his face just barely betraying a look of disgust. "Ulfric Stormcloak. I hope I never encounter you again. For your sake." Then he turned and looked at Gelebor, his expression softening. "I'm sorry you got caught up in all this. I hope you can find your way in the world."

"Thank you," Gelebor said.

There was no further farewell. Teldryn strode away out of view, down the platform. Towards where they had left the horses tethered.

A few more seconds went by. Ulfric seemed to be waiting for his former companion to get a fair distance away before exiting.

Gelebor asked, "What happens now?"

The Nord paused for a moment in thought, then stepped out of the lift chamber with the Aetherial Lock cradled in his arm. "Now, we wait. The Dragonborn said he'd be able to find this thing once it had been made. So I suspect we'll be seeing him soon. Or at least someone he knows."

Business as usual, then. Gelebor couldn't bring himself to return to that fully. He exited the lift himself, took a look up at the sky—the stars were still shining away—then looked back down at where Teldryn had gone. He was already out of sight.

Then he turned to Ulfric and asked, "What _did_ happen in Windhelm?"

That seemed to take him by surprise. He raised his eyebrows and looked down at the ground once more, taking a deep breath in before starting his answer. "I was the Jarl of Windhelm for a fair few years. I saw my people being oppressed by the Empire. The White-Gold Concordat had been designed _exactly_ to offend us, simply by banning the worship of Talos in Imperial territory. Time passed, things escalated. The Thalmor sent their Justiciars into Skyrim, started making Talos worshippers disappear. My people looked to me for help."

"The Dunmer, though."

"I championed the fight for Skyrim's freedom by appealing to the culture of Nords. The Dunmer… weren't involved in that. All I knew was that if I ordered the Nords—my own people, as they understood it—to provide the Dunmer with better aid, they would suspect my motives. It might seem straightforward to you now, but my grip on the leadership of the rebellion was more precarious than many knew. And you can see what happened to it without me."

Gelebor paused. This explanation made some amount of sense, but it was still testing his knowledge of history. "The Dragonborn threw out the Concordat entirely, didn't he? He persuaded the Empire to engage the Thalmor in open war."

"Essentially, yes. He did what I had wanted to do, but everything I had done wrong, he did right. One night, he came to me and showed me the dossier the Thalmor had written about me. Did you know they considered me an asset of theirs?" Ulfric sighed again. His expression was steadily darkening. "I can't describe what that was like. Realizing that I had been manipulated into my own rebellion, simply to further the Thalmor's goals of weakening the Empire—my world collapsed, Gelebor. It collapsed in one night. And the Dragonborn should have killed me, but he didn't."

"He sent you to Sovngarde, though. By some means."

Ulfric nodded. "There was a portal to its plane, in the mountainside fortress of Skuldafn. I stayed there and communed with higher powers on his behalf, for a time. Then, after the Oblivion Purge, I returned to Mundus to resume working directly. And as far as the Dunmer go, in all this… I've heard they're doing better, under Jarl Brunwulf's leadership. I regret many things I've done in life, and ignoring the Dunmer was one of them."

"You don't seem eager to seek absolution for anything you've done. Not if the 'Vidrald' identity is any indication." Even now, Gelebor didn't feel particularly irritated about this whole matter, but he did find himself struggling to understand Ulfric's mentality in the present day. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like, living with so much regret in every waking moment. It sounded impossible.

"What do you suppose I would do, Gelebor? Look for forgiveness in the eyes of those I've wronged? The only life that I could ever even _hope_ to improve from that would be my own. That would be inexcusably self-centered. Skyrim believes me to be dead. It needs to believe me dead. I can never bury the memories of my past, but there's no place in the world for any guilt that lingers in my heart."

"Once the Shadow Unending has been dealt with, what do you intend to do next?"

"I don't know. Find some quiet place to live, perhaps. See if I can continue making Skyrim a better place, in my own small way." Ulfric paused, then laughed. "Have my appearance changed, perhaps? … Truly, though, I don't know. What about yourself, Gelebor? What do you plan to do?"

"I suppose it would be too much to ask to accompany you further." Gelebor smiled mirthlessly. "That _had_ been my plan. But Auri-El sent me forth to aid you in your mission, and now it's complete. Perhaps I'll head to Fort Dawnguard. There's at least one friendly face there, after all."

Ulfric arched a single eyebrow inquisitively. "Fort Dawnguard? You want to go hunting for vampires?"

"Mmm, less that, and more that I simply want someplace quiet to work. Darkfall Cave doesn't need my vigil. Not nearly as much as the rest of Skyrim could use my time. I thought I might stay with the Dawnguard for a while, and use my time to write that book."

"That book," the Nord repeated blankly. "I'm… sorry, I don't…"

"Ah, right. You weren't there for that conversation. I, ah…" Now he had to mentally backtrack. This idea had begun somewhere, after all. "I was in Whiterun. Talking with Farengar, the court wizard. I commented that I prefer being called a 'snow elf' as opposed to a 'Falmer', and explained the importance of the distinction. Farengar suggested I write an account of my experiences as a snow elf, and enlighten the scholarly community with my knowledge."

As Gelebor explained himself, a smile grew on Ulfric's face. He seemed to understand the meaning of this right away. "That would be wonderful to see. The legacy of your people may live on yet, thanks to you."

"That's the hope, at least." Gelebor looked around the platform briefly, then went over to the nearest staircase and sat down at its top. His muscles immediately thanked him for the respite. He hadn't realized how weary he'd become, but it stood to reason. "Here. I'll wait with you until the Dragonborn can take his artifact. If nothing else, you could use the extra protection in the meantime."

Ulfric came over and sat down beside him, resting the Aetherial Lock in his lap. "Thank you," he said, before brushing his fingers over the Lock's invisible spherical boundary. "It is beautiful, isn't it?"

Gelebor nodded slowly. "I wonder what stars we're seeing through it. All the time I've been looking at them, I haven't recognized a single constellation from our own sky."

With that, the two of them settled in for a time of silent waiting. The sun was shining from above, the wind was breezing through the treetops around the platform's clearing—it was a beautiful afternoon. There were far worse sights to see at the end of a journey like this.

Eventually, something did break the silence. A rushing sound on the wind, massive yet distant. Gelebor looked around, and saw nothing.

That was odd.

Then a giant, winged shadow swept over the ruins.

Gelebor pushed himself to his feet just in time to see the dragon land. The earth shook beneath him with the impact. It had landed right on the stone platform behind them, just by the lift tower.

Never in his life had he seen such a massive creature. It stood on the ground on all fours, and its folded wings were so far apart that the left one wasn't even on the platform, but on the grassy hillside nearby. And its size was rivaled only by its majesty. It was an elegant yet fearsome creature, adorned with lustrous dark gray scales, and all variety of horns and spikes over its head and back. This was one of the children of Akatosh.

He had only seen dragons before in renditions of artwork. In person, this dragon exposed those for the feeble likenesses they were. Never before had such a beautiful creature shown itself to him.

"Greetings," the dragon spoke. Its voice was deep, and commanding, and clearly divine, even in that one word. "I am Paarthurnax."

That name was familiar. Gelebor wasn't sure where he'd heard it, exactly—or read it, for that matter—but it sounded like something he should have known.

"You're looking good," Ulfric remarked, as though this were the most casual exchange in the world.

The dragon took this in stride. "The Dovahkiin supplied me with a new physical form, after the destruction of the last one. No doubt, Ulfric, you are familiar with that story."

Gelebor stared uncomprehendingly.

Ulfric glanced over to him. "He waited a few thousand years on the Throat of the World for Alduin to return. Looked pretty worn-down after that, by what I saw of him from Sovngarde. Then he got killed fighting Morokei, and, uh… Iseus undid that."

"Ah."

Paarthurnax paused for a moment, waiting for them to finish their exchange, before continuing. "I see you have procured the Aetherial Lock. And I understand that you have defeated Alduin. For that, you have my congratulations. The Dovahkiin regrets being unable to visit you personally. He remains busy mitigating the effects of the Shadow Unending. But I will gladly bring you to him."

"Sounds good," Ulfric said, before pointing sideways to Gelebor. "By the way, this is Knight-Paladin Gelebor. A servant of Auri-El, so I suppose he works for your father."

The dragon leaned forwards and narrowed his eyes curiously. That was certainly a sight to behold. "Knight-Paladin Gelebor. You are a snow elf, are you not? I have not seen your kind since before Alduin's banishment."

Now it was time for him to speak. For him to speak to a dragon, more specifically. Gelebor might have been daunted by this, but after everything else today, he couldn't bring himself to pay attention to his own trepidation. "Yes," he nodded. "So far as I know, I am the last of my kind."

"I would not be so sure of that," Paarthurnax said. "A day may dawn when you find others like yourself."

"If you say so," Gelebor shrugged. Perhaps Paarthurnax knew something he didn't. But it was a vague proposition, at best—and at this point, the notion of other snow elves out there meant rather little. Skyrim had moved on. And at this point, so had he.

Ulfric turned and looked at him questioningly. "So. Do you wish to accompany me?"

Gelebor's answer came instantly. "I appreciate the offer, but no, I believe now is our time to part ways. I suppose you'll know where to find me." Then he paused, and added, "Also, Sunset is still tethered nearby, I think. Wouldn't want her to have to wait _that_ long."

"You think?" The Nord laughed aloud. "What did I tell you about underestimating your horse?"

Then he hefted the Aetherial Lock in his hands, and walked up to Paarthurnax directly. "You know, this isn't the first time I've ridden a dragon. But it is the first time I've done so while carrying a world-changing magical device."

It was in that moment, as Ulfric approached the divine being before them, that it hit Gelebor. It hit him what was happening now. He was about to be alone once more.

"I bid you farewell, Knight-Paladin Gelebor," Paarthurnax said. "It is an honor to have met one of Akatosh's blessings to the world."

The snow elf opened his mouth, but no words came. Akatosh's blessing to the world. To hear that from this dragon, right here and now… he had no words at all.

Ulfric headed around Paarthurnax's side and climbed up onto his back, a little awkwardly for having one hand full. But soon enough, he was looking down at Gelebor from over the dragon's own head, right between the horns. The Aetherial Lock was just barely visible under his arm. "Thank you, Gelebor! For everything."

"You're very welcome." It was the first thing he could think of to say. Perhaps he could have thought of something better, but those were his final words to Ulfric.

Paarthurnax spread his massive wings wide apart, and with a single flourishing beat, took to the air. It was a sight Gelebor would remember forever—Paarthurnax, against the starry blue sky, with Ulfric riding atop him to parts unknown. But just as quickly as the moment came, it passed.

Gelebor watched silently as the dragon's form ascended higher and higher, until it swooped away over the treetops and passed immediately out of sight.

He stood for a moment like that, all alone in the midst of the Dwemer ruin.

Then he turned and began descending the stairs to the path below. Sunset was just a short walk away.

He couldn't wait to start writing that book.


	60. Ria 11

**We're nearing the end of The Shadow Unending. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who's read this story. As always, you make this stuff worth writing.**

 **I'd also like to take this opportunity to recommend you take a look at countess z's story, A Perfect Sacrifice. It lends a context to The Shadow Unending that I never touched upon myself.**

Fredas, 5:10 PM, 78th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Northwind Summit

"Wake up, Ria."

A hand shook gently on her shoulder.

She rolled onto her back. Opened her eyes, slowly. Her vision was so blurry, she could hardly see a thing. But through the visor of her helmet, she thought she could see a blue sky.

The fighting had gone on for longer than she could remember. In fact, she couldn't remember how it had ended. It all blurred together. Thu'ums and spells being thrown back and forth, draugr coming down upon her in a constant stream, arrows flying through the air… she'd been wounded a hundred times, only to be healed each and every time by one of the mages.

And at some point there, she had lost track of time. There had been no sunrise, no sunset over their battlefield. It could have gone on for a week. She didn't know.

She pulled her helmet off, and rubbed slowly at her eyes. To her surprise, she wasn't in particularly much pain. She wasn't even thirsty. Someone must have been looking out for her.

Her vision sharpened slowly. Vilkas was looking down at her. Still armored, still wearing his war paint. Even now, it was hard to think he was really there.

"Good evening," he smiled. "Don't worry, you're safe."

Beyond him, there was nothing above her but clear, open sky, just like Ria had thought. The sun was around late morning on its path—or early evening, she couldn't tell right now—but the rest of the sky was still filled with glittering bright white stars. Perhaps a few dozen of them.

It reminded her of that first, fateful day in Whiterun, when she and Erik had been outside Jorrvaskr, and seen those stars in the late evening sky. They hadn't known what those had meant—

The memory's return came stabbing into her like a knife in the chest. That was right. Erik was gone now. So were Athis and Njada. She'd lost everyone who'd come here with her.

Vilkas continued, "Our mission to defend the Heart of Lorkhan was a true success. The red draugr have been driven out, and the Heart itself has been recalled to Aetherius. Most of us have returned to Sovngarde, but I asked Shor to allow me to speak to you once more."

Ria struggled for words. She didn't know what she needed to say. Eventually, she went with, "… What day is it?"

"Today is Fredas, the 78th of Second Seed. The Shadow Unending's day of reckoning. Its battles are over. We won."

Now more words came. She knew what she needed to say. "Everyone but me is dead, here. Even you."

But this didn't seem to bother him. He just shrugged. "There were other battlefields in which Alduin was fought. There are other survivors, other victors. But even if they were all to die, what matters is that they succeeded. Mundus is safe once more."

"I should be the one who's dead. I was Shor's sacrifice."

"Selthrei," Vilkas nodded. "The Tears of Sacrifice. What makes you think the thing being sacrificed was _you?_ "

Well, this was new.

"That sacrifice was Shor's, and Shor's alone. He gave everything for the world we live in. He simply chose you to wield it, at my recommendation."

Ria choked. She couldn't help it. "At _your…_ "

The man nodded again, this time smiling a little. He was actually smiling. What was this supposed to be? "This should be obvious by now, but we've been hoping you would take up the mantle of Harbinger. Or, more specifically, I have. Your spirit is strong, Ria. I know you can do it."

"No, not obvious," Ria began to say. But then she stopped herself. Maybe it _was_ obvious. She'd always thought she'd been given Selthrei because she was meant to die using it. That was what everyone had thought. If that wasn't true…

She tried again. "All right. Let's say it is. I'm still coming back there myself. No one can even prove my story. Everyone who could is … well, dead."

"I knew that concern would come up sooner or later. Unfortunately, due to Alduin's magic, the bodies of your Shield-Siblings are beyond recovery. But proof of their fate can still be found. As far as your becoming Harbinger…"

Vilkas bent down over her, and whispered the rest into her ear. Somehow, when he did this, it felt like she wasn't simply being spoken to. It felt like he was saying something to her soul. She wished she had better words for it, but something was happening.

When it was done, Ria asked, "Is that all?"

"One last thing. Erik is with us now. Njada and Athis too. But Erik beseeched me to speak to you on his behalf. He told me he never finished his last words to you."

Was that true? She could hardly remember. She only remembered looking at Erik, and seeing the sword in his side, and watching as an arrow had come in and transfixed him forever.

"Erik was very clear about this," Vilkas went on. "He wanted you to tell his father he died a hero."

Oh. That was what Erik had been saying. What he'd been trying to say, before the arrow had cut him short. Ria knew of his father. Mralki, the innkeeper in Rorikstead. She was going to have to deliver that news herself.

Because Erik was dead, and that was just the truth.

She asked again, "Is _that_ all?"

"Yes." The former Harbinger righted himself, and nodded one last time. "Sovngarde calls to me. I have spent long enough here. I wish you the best of luck on your adventures to come, and—enjoy the sword. You earned it."

"Thank you," Ria whispered.

She was alone here. Nobody was standing above her. There was only the empty sky. She pushed herself upright and looked around.

The slopes of the crater were around her. In every direction, there was a practical wall of draugr corpses, all piled up messily in a ring around her, maybe ten yards out in any direction. Just by her left side were the broken rocks that the Heart of Lorkhan had floated between. It wasn't there anymore.

Also sitting there was Selthrei. Just out of reflex, she called it back to her hand, and sheathed it. She didn't feel like moving the four feet it would've taken to grab the thing the normal way.

And just by her right side were a row of three helmets. Two leather, one steel. She recognized them instantly. And at the sight of them, that horrible, stabbing feeling of realization hit her again.

She picked up Erik's helmet. Held it in her gloved hands. The steel was dented and dirty.

Gods. How had this happened? Erik had been her friend. Now he was a… a memory.

Ria laid her head down against the helmet. She didn't even move. She sat there, and wept bitterly. Didn't know for how long. It hurt so much, she couldn't even think.

Eventually, when she'd run out of tears to shed, she lay back quietly on the stones of the crater. She still wanted to shed more, but she'd run out. And her face hurt.

What would Erik have even said to her right now? Something reassuring. Something about seeing her again in Sovngarde, probably. Some Nordic thing like that. It turned out that that didn't really matter much right now.

Ria had never had to lose anyone before. Not like this. Everything she'd been through, for this whole Shadow Unending, it had all been so insane. And perilous. Red draugr, shooting stars, giant netches, ancient heroes, and she'd spent the whole time evading death by an inch. Now she was here, and alive, and safe, and everyone else who'd sworn to fight alongside her was dead.

She wondered if it would've made a difference if Farengar had made that dragon armor for Erik instead of her. Maybe it would've saved them both. Or killed them both. Probably didn't make sense to try to guess about.

Now how was she going to get back to Whiterun? Walk the whole way?

At that moment, a gust of air rushed suddenly over Ria's head. She looked up just in time to see Odahviing turn and land in front of her, all at once. The ground shook a little under the weight of his landing.

Good timing, Odahviing.

"Greetings," he said, in his usual big deep dragon-voice. Ria still couldn't get over that. "Today is a day of momentous change. You played an honorable role in this."

"They're all dead." The Imperial pointed to the helmets by her side. She couldn't get over this either, could she? "All of the others who came with me. They all fell."

Odahviing's voice went soft. "I know." He paused briefly. "I have been witness to great news of late. Your fight to protect the Heart of Lorkhan was one of four crucial engagements against Alduin. One severed his immortal power, one broke his grip on Aetherius, and one destroyed him. Alduin is truly defeated. His soul will never return to haunt us again."

Ria said nothing. She didn't really know where this was going anyway.

"But none of the others would have amounted to anything, had Alduin reached the Heart. Your Shield-Siblings, your friends, gave their lives to the greatest cause that the Fourth Era has ever seen. I may be a dragon, but I understand death, and I understand sacrifice. "

"What did you come here for? To make me feel better?"

"I came here because you must return to Whiterun. Your hall awaits you. And after your trials, it would be a disservice to force you to traverse the wilderness of Skyrim yourself." The dragon paused briefly, and briefly tilted his head in casual acknowledgment. "But if I can aid in your feelings, I would be pleased."

Ria nodded slowly. This whole thing was still insane. But at least she understood what was going on.

Then something occurred to her. She didn't feel like withholding the thought right now. "Hey, Odahviing. Does it bother you that we're basically using your race for short travel times?"

Odahviing paused for another brief moment, then made a low noise of indifference. "I would say not. Akatosh granted us many gifts in our creation. One was our wings. To be able to traverse all land and water equally, to reach any corner of Tamriel as we so choose. And unlike our command of the Thu'um, which the mortals of Skyrim have been able to match, our wings remain a gift that only we possess. It is my honor to share it with you."

"Well… thank you," Ria said, for the second time that day.

"You are welcome. Now climb on."

Fredas, 9:19 PM, 78th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Jorrvaskr

They flew back the exact way they came. Skyrim raced along beneath them as before, but Ria didn't care about the view. She spent the entire ride with the three helmets stacked together in her lap, held in place by her arms. And she was aware, the whole time, that she should've had Erik riding along with her.

By the time they returned to Whiterun, it was late in dusk, well past sundown, and the stars were shining brightly overhead. Ria didn't care much. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

She hopped off of Odahviing's back in the training ground between Jorrvaskr's rear porch and the city wall. After a few words of parting, the dragon took to the air once more, and she was left to go her own way.

This wasn't going to be nice.

Even from outside, Ria could hear the usual merriment going on in the hall. It didn't sound like they'd even noticed the dragon landing outside. Maybe Odahviing had just been sure to touch down very gently today.

Still, nobody was out here, so she walked up through the porch with no trouble. But then she stopped just short of the door, and thought about this for a second. Her Shield-Siblings' helmets were all stacked together in one arm. How was she going to do this? How did anyone ever deliver news like hers?

On the other side of the doors, someone's voice shouted, "You don't eat the crust of the sweetroll, you don't eat ANY of the sweetroll, take it all, take it all!"

Someone else called out, "Just dip it in milk! That fixes the dryness!"

The first voice shouted back, "Milk-drinker! We have a milk-drinker!"

A whole bunch of people laughed.

Gods, what was Ria doing here?

She leaned against the doorframe for a moment. Pulled up her visor, took a moment to breathe. This was the first time she'd come back from a job with fewer people than she'd left with. And she'd lost three out of three. And she had an extraordinary tale to tell for how that happened. If she could tell it.

Another voice inside the hall shouted, "Drink it! Be brave! Be brave, brother!", to yet more cheers.

There wasn't much sense in waiting more. The Imperial reached down with her free hand, opened up the door, and stepped inside.

The moment she did, everyone turned and looked at her—and just stopped. The sounds of merriment died so suddenly, she could've mistaken them for a Shield-Sibling of hers.

She stepped inside, and carefully closed the door behind her. Coming in through the back door, the whole table was in between her and the hearth. She rather welcomed the warmth.

For some reason, there was a glass pitcher of some milky bluish-greenish stuff, sitting here on the table. It was glowing brightly, casting cyan light everywhere. Kind of distracting. Ria had no idea what she was looking at.

And everyone was just staring at her. This wasn't good.

One of the Companions stood up slowly. Torvar. He was right in front of Ria, right at the middle of the table. And he was just staring at her—but not at her face, no, that would have been too nice. He was staring at what Ria was holding in her hand.

"The Heart of Lorkhan is safe," the Imperial said. She couldn't believe her own ears, but she was saying this now. "Alduin has been defeated. The Shadow Unending will see an end after all."

Then she walked over to the nearest empty side table, and set down her fallen friends' helmets on it, one by one. "We paid for it dearly."

Torvar put a hand to his mouth. "Oh, gods. You mean…"

"Erik, Athis and Njada. I couldn't recover their bodies. Alduin saw to that. I could only bring back those." Ria gestured to the helmets beside her, before pulling off her own and holding it under her arm. Her hair had gotten a bit sweaty on the ride over here. The fresh air felt nice. "We'll need to give them their rites as we're able, all the same."

One of the Companions back at the table—Tam, actually, called over, "But you defeated Alduin. Right?"

"Not personally, no. We only protected the Heart of Lorkhan. There were a few battles, and we were only there for one. We were busy with the red draugr, and…"

"All right, wait, stop. Stop." Torvar waved his hands in the air for emphasis. Maybe he'd had a bit much to drink by now. "You need to sit down and explain this all, from the start. Because right now, you're not making any sense. And all I'm hearing is that three Companions are dead."

There was a murmur of subdued agreement throughout the room. That was that, then. She found an empty seat at the table, and took it for herself.

"All right, so this started with the volcano."

And so Ria began the retelling of her story. Starting with Farengar determining that the Heart of Lorkhan was back, and what that meant for Alduin's mission to destroy Mundus—with an explanation, of course, that Lorkhan and Shor were one and the same being. Then came the part where she left with her Shield-Siblings for Northwind Summit. That was when her story started to get a little messy.

It wasn't easy. She was trying to retell everything truthfully, but her memory was muddled, and she wasn't the best orator to begin with, and… and she didn't even want to be talking about some of this. She wished Athis were around. That elf had always been the good storyteller.

All of the red draugr, all of the glorious battle to be had, and all she could think about was what it'd be like to lose her friends. There'd been that one moment, when she'd seen the dagger hit Njada in the neck, and everything had changed in an instant. She'd spent so long preparing for death, and only then had she started to learn what it really meant. Looking back on it now, losing Athis and Erik afterwards felt sort of inevitable.

But then came the part with the final confrontation in the impact crater. Ria didn't know how to explain the splendor of what she'd seen. But she described it as best she could, where she'd touched the Heart of Lorkhan and realized what she had to do next. And then opened the portal to Sovngarde, and let the warriors of the past return to the present. Even down to the very Companions she'd once known herself in this hall. They'd all come back, just that once. Just for that one fateful battle.

And they'd won. Odahviing had picked her up, and delivered the news of Alduin's defeat. And that was that.

By the end of the account, her face was wet with tears. She stopped, wiped them off as best she could, and just tried to think. There had to be some way to end this story.

"My friends gave everything to win this fight. They… they all died for it. But in the end, it wasn't just a battle of the Companions against Alduin. It was a… a battle spanning all of Nordic history. Alduin, he overwhelmed us with an army made of the undead enemies of the past. Hundreds upon hundreds of years of history, all unleashed in a single day. The only way we survived—I don't just mean myself, I mean all of us—was by reaching into that same history ourselves."

Ria took a deep, trembling breath in. These had been some truly momentous days. If only she could have gone through them without losing so much on the way.

"I… I suppose we may be slain ourselves, in one battlefield or another. But with Shor watching over us, we'll live on forever. He sure proved it to me on that mountain. Eternal life in Sovngarde. That's the idea, right? They're not really gone, just… up there, watching over us?"

Nobody spoke. The only sound was the hearth burning. Ria wondered if she was missing anything.

Yes, she was.

"One other thing. Vilkas proclaimed me Harbinger."

Immediately, everyone at the table erupted in noise. Crying words of denial, and dismissal—what? What was this about? All of a sudden, she was being punished for her own story? She didn't understand. She just sat in place, eyes wide, trying to figure out what was even happening.

Then a deafening, gravelly voice cut through the clamor. "HEY! ALL OF YOU, BE QUIET!"

And they did.

It was Vignar Gray-Mane. Just as old and leathery and heavily-mustached as ever. He walked out from around the edge of the table, out in front of the hearth, and put his hands on his hips. "Well," he said sharply, looking over everyone else present. "I pray for the day you children don't need me to discipline you."

"Vignar," Ria began to say, before getting promptly interrupted.

"Ria. I'm truly sorry." The old Nord held up his hands in a conceding gesture. "To lose a Shield-Brother in battle is a woeful thing. To lose three, all at once? This is a tragic day. No one here has the right to diminish that."

He paused. There was definitely more coming. Ria just waited for it.

"But you can understand our doubts, can't you? We have no idea what really happened out there. All we know is that you left with three Shield-Siblings, and returned alone. Anything could have happened. It could have been a dream, it could have been anything. Having a fancy sword and armor isn't the same as being a worthy Harbinger. If you're going to make that claim… well, I've said my piece."

His piece indeed. This was more than Vignar had ever said at once for as long as Ria could remember. He usually just sat around and groused about the good old days. Maybe he'd just gotten especially tired of handing jobs out for everyone, and he wanted to get it over with.

That was fine with Ria. She wanted to get past this too.

"Vilkas told me you all might doubt my story," she nodded. "But he insisted that we need a Harbinger. Usually, the Circle would pick a successor if the Harbinger hadn't named one. But the Circle's gone too. And now we have to start over. And—I'm glad you spoke up, Vignar. He had a message for you in particular."

"Let's hear it, then."

This was what Vilkas had told her, just some hours past. Ria still had no idea what it meant. "He wanted me to tell you… Suffer the winter's cold wind."

Vignar gasped. He actually gasped. Put a hand to his mouth and everything. So that had meant something after all.

Everyone else was just staring, of course.

He lowered his hand again very slowly. "… for it bears aloft next summer's seeds," he murmured, and his voice was full of emotion, more than Ria had ever heard it before. The Nord cleared his throat, looked around, and spoke up to everyone. "It's a saying we have in my family. I taught it to Farkas and Vilkas, a very long time ago. Not something we share with outsiders. But I suppose that's done with now."

Then he pointed to Ria with one finger. His hand was trembling a little. "She… spoke to Vilkas. She truly did. Whatever else is true of her tale—oh, by Shor, I never thought I'd hear of him again…!"

He stepped back and shrank away to his spot by the wall again. Ria could very clearly see him wiping at his own face now. In case today hadn't seen enough tears shed.

Everyone was still quiet. Maybe they just didn't know what to do.

Torvar cleared his throat loudly. "So, Ria. Our new Harbinger. What's your first command for us?"

Really now. Ria glared at him reproachfully.

"Harbingers don't give commands, genius. See, this is why the Circle didn't pick you."

"Huh, I just thought it was all the mead," Torvar shrugged.

That got a good laugh out of everyone else. Partially of relief, Ria thought. This had been a bit of a crazy encounter just now.

And they still did have three dead Companions to deal with.

She had more talking to do. At this point, her throat was starting to ache from all the use her voice was getting. But she addressed everyone all the same.

"All right, listen. Answering you seriously, Torvar? We have a lot of work ahead of us. The Companions have lost a great deal, these past months. We lost the Harbinger and the Circle, and the red draugr have taken even more from us still. But as long as there are real warriors in Skyrim, our guild is never going to die out, and here's why: We have a god on our side. Shor is watching over us. And he _wants_ the Companions to see a bright future. All we have to do is hold up our end of the deal."

More silence followed. But it wasn't uncomfortable, at this point. It seemed like everyone was just waiting for her to do something else.

After an indecisive moment's pause, she pointed at the pitcher of blue stuff. "What is that, exactly?"

"Moonshock," Torvar said. "Straight from Blackreach. One mug of that'll knock you out cold. Better to just put a thimble of it in the bottom of your drink."

"Well, it's time for a drink, for sure. I think I'll pass on the glowing blue paint."

Torvar smiled and shrugged. "Fair enough."

With that, Ria went for a bottle and empty tankard, poured herself some mead, and held it up high. "To the future!"

The response came back in immediate unison. A whole lot of tankards joined hers in the air. "TO THE FUTURE!"

And so the merriment of Jorrvaskr resumed. Ria was back with them, still wearing her dragon armor, but nothing else was new. She took a good long swig of her mead, and let the sweet fiery taste run through her. And as she did, she reflected his evening was going to be fine. Before long, people would probably be yelling about sweetrolls again.

They were going to have a lot of organizing to do over the coming weeks. The Companions still needed a Circle to run things for them—Ria imagined Vignar didn't want to be permanently on job-giving duty—and it would be a while before she could pick anyone to be in it. Obviously, her top choices were… not around anymore, at this point. And they were going to have to deal with that too.

But good times were coming for them. Ria knew that in her heart. After all they'd been through, the Companions of Whiterun were finally free to pursue their ways to their hearts' content.

And if she ever felt like she was meant to be pursuing them with friends she no longer had… well, maybe Sovngarde was there for a reason.


	61. Thorald 10

**For anyone who's curious, the updated cover picture is an illustration of chapter 54. I wanted to get that in there before finishing up. In any case, here we go!**

Loredas, 2:20 PM, 1st of Mid Year, 4E 202

Whiterun

Thorald pulled open the doors of Dragonsreach, and stepped out into the sunlight.

The city of Whiterun was all laid out before him. The districts sprawled outward in a steadily widening swathe, as though the golden-roofed buildings had all been poured out from the Cloud District in a spreading pool. Once he got across Dragonsreach's moat, he could even see all the way down to the gatehouse, out at the far end of the city walls.

Though he didn't say much about it these days, Thorald was a member of the Gray-Mane family. He'd been born and raised in Whiterun. Even now, he knew this city like it was his own. But it had never looked as beautiful to him as it did today.

Above them, the sky was filled with only the faintest hints of clouds, laid out in wispy swirls around a bright afternoon sun. Not a single star was up there to be seen. The Shadow Unending was over.

And in case that wasn't enough, Zaryth was walking beside him. When they got to the top of the Cloud District's stairway, she stopped and turned to him suddenly.

"So, wait. Hold on. … How do I look?"

Thorald obligingly stopped too, and gave the Dunmer a look over. The only really noteworthy thing—besides how beautiful she always was, though that obviously wasn't what she'd meant—was her outfit. It was that all-black thing that she'd gotten to match J'zargo's armor. It had some nice triangular-looking layers around the front, and the usual red jagged X on the chest, which at this point was an instant identifier of their hold.

Not that they were planning to stand on reputation today. Thorald still appreciated Zaryth taking the effort to present herself well.

He smiled. "You look splendid. Don't worry about it, all right?"

"If you say so," Zaryth mumbled.

Honestly, Thorald himself had been planning on just wearing his usual off-duty clothes and leaving it at that. But since Zaryth had been so intent on looking her best, he'd hopped over to Solitude and gotten himself some heavier, more colorful clothes for the occasion. No Blackreach icon for him. He was just dressed like a reasonably wealthy Nord who liked the colors red and light gray.

He pulled Zaryth in for a quick kiss, then started on his way down the stairs. "That icon on your robes is going to command everyone's respect anyway. Blackreach and its people have only done good things for Whiterun."

"You're talking about Kamian, right?" The Dunmer was talking from behind him, following in single file down the stairs. She sounded a little put off. Maybe it was the reminder of the volcano. "Hey, uh… how is he, anyway?"

Fortunately, he'd heard about this from Lenve not long ago. "Awake, thankfully. Couldn't say beyond that. Haven't talked to him. He's still in Dragonsreach—I suppose we just went past him. But he might as well be in Skuldafn. Fellow needs his rest."

"Do you think he's going to be all right?"

Thorald shrugged. "If not, I imagine his brother can help."

They walked on in silence for a little bit. The noise of Whiterun approached them slowly. Thorald was too low down now to see the streets very far way, but he imagined there were some decent crowds.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Zaryth said, "You know, I've been thinking about the icon thing. It means we're from Blackreach, right? But anyone from Blackreach Hold uses it. The guards use it in Alftand."

"So?"

The Gildergreen was pretty much right in front of them. Thorald took a moment to stand still and enjoy the sight. The leaves were swaying so nicely in the wind. Down in Blackreach, things were beautiful beyond belief, but they sure didn't have any trees there.

Zaryth came to a stop beside him once more, and continued talking.

"Well, we're getting a great deal of mages and scholars in Blackreach lately. There's J'zargo and his assistants, plus that lady who's helping him regrow the nirnroots—Avusa?"

"Avrusa," Thorald said absently.

"Right. All of them, and your friend Alrik, and that scholar Lenve's involved with. Uh… Mehra, I think. We need to be better organized. I think we could do with our own division under the High King."

It was true, Blackreach _had_ been getting a few new arrivals lately. The only one Thorald had even really met properly so far was Alrik. The others were going to take some time to get acquainted with.

"Well, run it by him sometime," he shrugged. He hadn't even met that Mehra person yet. All he knew was that the woman was in the Blackreach support staff. The bit about Lenve was definitely new for him. Good for Lenve. "We, uh…. I suppose we have J'zargo as a court wizard, but I bet he'd do well managing everyone else too. It's a good idea."

Zaryth raised her eyebrows. "You think J'zargo should be in charge?" But then, after a moment, she relaxed again. "I suppose that makes sense. Better him than me. I don't think I could try telling your Alrik what to do."

Alrik, as it happened, looked completely amazing in Blackreach mage robes. Thorald knew this now for a fact.

"He does generally prefer to be in charge of himself. But I don't see why not, for organizing the mages up. Just pick a name for the group, and see how it goes." As Thorald talked, he began circling around the Gildergreen, moving to the rest of the Wind District. They did have places to be, after all.

"Oh, no," Zaryth groaned, before hurrying to keep up with him. "A name? How am I going to name an entire group? I could barely name my tower. Thorald, help me here. What am I doing?"

"Something pithy that rolls off the tongue well," Thorald said, before being interrupted by a sudden noise to his left.

It was the doors to the Temple of Kynareth opening up. A whole stream of… children, actually, was coming out, all in single file, being led by an orange-robed priest, and being followed by another priest in back. And the children were all wearing identical outfits to each other. Clean white shirts and gray trousers, with some odd red markings—he had no idea what those were about.

Gods, this was confusing. There were practically a couple dozen children, too. In all his years in Whiterun, he'd never seen a sight like this.

"… Wait a minute," he mumbled.

The priest in front was some woman he didn't recognize. She was leading the whole group off to… somewhere else in the city, apparently. Off in the Wind District somewhere. But the priest in back was much more familiar. Much, much more familiar.

When Thorald realized who it was, he promptly ran over to the man's side. "Hey! Heimskr. What's this all?"

This was the man who had, until recently, been the world's loudest preacher of Talos. His old spot was just a stone's throw away from where they stood now. But he'd stopped preaching there ever since a stone the size of a horse-drawn cart had landed on it. The half-buried boulder was still there, too, even now.

Heimskr, for his part, ignored that, and smiled brightly. "I suppose this must be a surprise for you, Thorald. But as you can see, I've taken up a new line of work. Here, walk with me—"

He promptly resumed following the line through the city streets. Thorald and Zaryth glanced at each other, then strode on over to catch up.

"So," Heimskr continued, once they were walking along with him. "The short version of the story is that I've taken up work at the Dragonhearth Orphanage. We were just on a visit to see the Temple of Kynareth. Oftentimes, we go around the city and let the children visit different places. We're even hoping to tour Dragonsreach, sometime within the next few weeks."

Zaryth was walking along Heimskr's other side. She nodded thoughtfully. "That's very good of you. It must take a lot of work to manage…" Rather than try to describe her thought, she simply waved an arm vaguely at all the children walking along in front of them. "I can appreciate that quite a lot. You're doing valuable work, Heimskr."

"Thank you very much!" The robed Nord positively beamed with joy for a moment there. Then he took a closer look at Zaryth, and hesitated. "Uh… Who are you, then, exactly?"

"Zaryth Velani. You can probably guess where I'm from." The Dunmer held up her forearms demonstratively. They were adorned with black sleeves over black fingerless gloves. That probably did say enough.

Heimskr nodded along in acknowledgment. "Mmm, yes. Friend of Thorald's, then?"

Thorald laughed aloud. "You could say that!"

"Well, I trust you're up to good things yourself, Zaryth." Naturally, Heimskr was taking the 'friend' thing in stride. "I suppose we'll be seeing a fair few people in black around Whiterun from now on. It's strange. Black used to be the color of mourners and necromancers, but thanks to your—hey. Hey! Den! Don't wander!"

One of the children up ahead, a dark-skinned younger boy, had left the line and gone to examine something towards the side of the road. When Heimskr called up his name, he looked up suddenly in surprise.

"Stay together," Heimskr said, still walking. He was about to go right past this boy if he didn't move.

But he did, and scurried up in front of Heimskr, at the end of the line he'd left. "Sorry." He sort of winced when she said it, like he was expecting a bigger reproach.

Heimskr simply smiled and continued on. "Thank you, Den."

Thorald raised an eyebrow at him. "You have someone named Din?"

"Den," Heimskr repeated.

"Right."

Den turned around and looked at them all as he walked. "What?"

"Ah, we're just talking," Heimskr said, which seemed to be satisfactory. Once the boy had turned back around, he asked, "Say, are you two interested in seeing our building? It was quite well-funded."

"I may take you up on that sometime," Thorald said. "But not now. We have someplace to be, ourselves."

As usual, the robed Nord's cheerfulness was not deterred. "Oh, all right. Not somewhere far from here, I hope?"

At this point, they were fairly far along in the Wind District. Thorald glanced behind himself, and saw only the slopes and turns of the road. The Gildergreen had already disappeared from sight.

This city had seen so many little additions over the centuries. Everything towards its central path, from the gatehouse to Dragonsreach, was fairly sensibly done. As one worked outwards, however, the roads got more and more haphazardly arranged. It was probably easy to get lost in. But Thorald had grown up here. He knew exactly which way he and Zaryth needed to go.

He replied, "No, actually. It's very nearby. You take care now, all right?"

"Count on it." Heimskr looked between the two of them, a big happy grin on his face. "Divines smile on you both!"

"Especially Talos," Thorald murmured, before turning around and gesturing back down the road. "It's this way, Zaryth."

As they began to walk on back, the Nord could hear Heimskr laughing behind him.

"Well, that was nice," Zaryth said. "Uh… Who was that? Did you know him from somewhere?"

Now Thorald himself laughed. He tried not to be too loud, at least. "Yes. Everyone in Whiterun knows that man. He's the one who used to preach about Talos in—"

The Dunmer put her hands up. "All right, yes, I know that one. … That was him? Really?"

"Yes, it was," Thorald replied cheerfully.

"So we're just going back the way we came, and then…?"

"Well, we actually went right past it on the way out. It's right, uh…" At that moment, they came around the bend in the road, and the Gildergreen emerged into view once again. As did the building in question. Thorald pointed to it. "There."

The Temple of Kynareth was on the left side of the road from here, and the place they wanted was on the right. It was a large, two-story thing, not quite the size of the temple beside it—but fairly close. Like most of the structures in Whiterun, it was made with wattle-and-daub walls and a shingled roof, with wood columns holding it all up. But Thorald always thought it had its own sort of sense of greatness. It was an old, proud building, and a good one to call home.

As they came close, Zaryth asked, "So, this is where you used to live?"

"That's right," Thorald nodded. "House Gray-Mane. It's no mushroom tower, but it's served us well enough."

The Dunmer laughed aloud. "Not everything has to be a mushroom tower! If they were practical for common use, everyone would live in them, right?"

"It betrays their lack of talent as mages and botanists," Thorald said smoothly.

"Well, that's not entirely fair. The Telvanni were highly isolationist compared to the other Houses, and delegated as little work as they could to outsiders. Mushroom towers were something they could make on their own. But they take longer to create, are inefficient for space, require personal attention from highly skilled individuals—there's a reason why even in Morrowind, they never entirely caught on." Zaryth paused and put a hand on her chin. "Well. … I just harshly criticized the mushroom towers of my own heritage, didn't I?"

Thorald reached over and patted her affectionately on the shoulder. "You're growing so quickly."

The front of House Gray-Mane faced directly towards the Gildergreen. This side had a gray stone brick façade in place of the wattle-and-daub, with two eagle-head statues around the doorway. Thorald walked up between them with total confidence. He knew this door better than any other door in the whole world.

Of course, the door was probably locked right then. He knocked three times, then stood back and waited.

Zaryth asked, "You don't have a key?"

"That's not the point," Thorald said. "I'd like to give my family time to prepare. I came here in the morning to let them know we'd be coming. Now they can all be together for this."

The Dunmer's eyes widened. "You _what?_ "

"Well, I wanted them to all be here. Not sure if they got Vignar, but…"

Footsteps were audible on the other side of the door. Thorald quieted down and waited. Perhaps this was one of those big moments in his life, where he'd look back on it years from now, and remember it like it was yesterday. But it wasn't like he was about to become nervous.

That reminded him, actually—he glanced over at Zaryth again. Gave her a brief look over, and asked, "How're you feeling?"

Zaryth swallowed visibly, then shrugged. "How much of your tolerance for Dunmer mages is inherited?"

"Don't worry," Thorald began to say. At that moment, the door opened.

And there were his mother and father. Fralia and Eorlund Gray-Mane.

Fortunately, he had gotten the hardest-hitting of the memories out of the way this morning. But this time, it felt like the real thing. He was here with a purpose. And his parents were standing in front of him. Wearing their nice clothing, too. This was really it.

His father looked so odd in proper robes. Even if they were sleeveless. His features were still rough and weathered, his hair long and unkempt, his fingers obviously callused—the man belonged at the forge, and they all knew it. Despite everything, that strange little contrast stood out before anything else.

Of course, his mother looked simply nice. But that was hardly new. She always looked sweet, at least to him. And unlike Thorald's father, she actually wore nice things most of the time to begin with. Just seeing her reminded Thorald of how long this place had been his home.

Behind his parents were his brother and sister, Avulstein and Olfina. Thorald hadn't seen them since his previous visit to Whiterun, before the Shadow Unending had begun. They looked a little better-dressed, but otherwise the same. His mature, intelligent siblings. The ones he'd grown up around.

And they were all looking at Thorald standing next to a Dunmer mage from Blackreach. That probably explained why they looked more surprised than happy. With the exception of his mother, who was smiling at them like this was the most regular thing in the world. Maybe she was right.

"Hello, everyone," Thorald smiled, before gesturing to the Dunmer mage next to him. "This is Zaryth Velani. She made time to come visit."

Zaryth waved meekly for a second, then returned her arms to her sides.

"Welcome to House Gray-Mane, Zaryth," Fralia said gently. And as she did, there was an emotion on her face, in her voice, that Thorald hadn't witnessed since his first return after Northwatch. "Please, come inside."

As Thorald led Zaryth over the threshold, his family members stepped out of the way, and introduced themselves by name, one by one. Here they were, meeting the mer he loved. And they were all being perfectly kind so far. He wouldn't have expected anything less.

He closed the door behind them, and then took a look around the room they were in. This was his home.

Now, he had been in enough homes to know that his was very spacious. Compared to other buildings, this was somewhere between the size of a regular house, and a small keep. The central room was tall and wide, dominated by a rectangular stone hearth, ringed by a second-story balcony held up by prominent wood columns. This was the home he'd grown up in. Even back in his younger days, he'd considered himself lucky for that.

No one else was in here. But there were six chairs arranged around the hearth, in a neat semicircle along the back, all ready to be occupied. His family really had prepared for this.

Once the greetings were done, Thorald asked, "Where's Vignar?"

Avulstein laughed loudly. He had such a big, deep voice. Befitting the eldest son of the family, maybe. "I knew you'd ask! He's in Jorrvaskr. Busy dealing with important matters, he said. Don't worry, he'll come around sooner or later, he's just preoccupied right now."

"Oh." And here he'd been expecting it to be because of his lover's race, or something of the sort. "With what?"

"Something about the Companions. I didn't pry."

Fralia asked, "Would you like to sit down, Zaryth?"

That seemed to take the Dunmer by surprise. She glanced around the room suddenly, then settled on the hearth and nodded in understanding. "Uhh, that's, uh, yes, please! Thank you. Thank you very much, I appreciate that."

"Oh, relax," Avulstein said, as they all started walking on towards the hearth. "We don't bite. And if we did, we'd bite something else."

Thorald took the seat on the very right, and Zaryth went right by him. Fralia and Eorlund went for the middle seats. That left Avulstein and Olfina for the ones on the left. It was a nice arrangement. They'd never even had it like this before, but it was nice.

The fire from the hearth was nicely warm on him, too. In Blackreach, heat was everywhere, but here in Whiterun, it was precious.

"I'm sure you have plenty of questions for me," Zaryth started as she sat down. "I've never done anything like this before, so… someone else is going to have to say something."

Thorald reached over and laid a hand softly on her arm. "We're among family. Don't worry about it."

"Well, yes, but I'm a mage," she mumbled.

Olfina said, "Love goes where it goes. I don't think that's really fair to try and judge, and—Zaryth, you seem nice so far. Nords mainly dislike mages when they're arrogant. … The mages, that is. Or either, I suppose."

Avulstein added, "Honestly, you could be a necromancer cult leader and I wouldn't care right now. My brother's in love with you. I know that has to be for a reason."

Thorald grimaced. He mouthed at Avulstein silently, " _Necromancer?!_ "

A couple seconds went by in silence. Zaryth cleared her throat.

Then something completely unexpected happened: Eorlund spoke up. He settled in to look at Zaryth, rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, and… started talking. "I've heard you did a fair lot of work for the Shadow Unending. Even made that column in Dragonsreach, that the Ebony Warrior used to come and save us all. The whole city owes you their lives for that."

"Well…" Zaryth shifted in her seat. "When you put it that way…"

Fralia smiled again. "It looks like you're one of our heroes now. You should be proud of yourself."

Thorald was about to say something, but then Olfina asked, "How did you two meet, exactly? I never heard."

Then, before he could come up with an answer, Zaryth spoke first. "It was in Saarthal. I'd just left the College of Winterhold, after visiting there. The College had been digging around in there a while back, so I went to see if they missed anything."

Olfina frowned. "Saarthal? The old Nord tomb?"

"City, actually. I know the Nords don't like their dead disturbed, but the College started digging around, and they found some truly wondrous things. That was before I went there, though. When I went, I found nothing at all of note remaining."

"Besides dead Nords, I'm guessing," Avulstein said.

"More or less," Zaryth nodded, a bit sheepishly. "So I went back outside, only to find a few mages waiting for me. Turned out they were Thalmor assassins." She paused for a second. Everyone's faces had darkened at the word 'Thalmor'. Understandably, too—they'd endured its cost to one person in the room already.

But then she continued as before. "They'd followed me the whole way to the ruin, just to kill me. I was able to bring one down myself, using my typical approach of spells and quick thinking—but then I was hit with a poison arrow. Took away all my magicka. I was helpless then. But Thorald saved me."

Thorald added, "The assassins had been following her, but I'd been following the assassins. I think they were worried what would happen if Zaryth joined our ranks."

Avulstein snorted. "Fulfilled their own prophecy, didn't they?"

"Pity about Saarthal," Olfina said. "I do prefer that places like that be left in peace."

Thorald bit his lip for a second. "Well… Unfortunately, I had to destroy the whole place the other day."

Everyone stared at him in silence. Except for Zaryth, who was nodding in agreement.

Eorlund said, "What."

"You heard about how Alduin was causing the Shadow Unending?"

Everyone nodded.

"He had an artifact hidden there, making the whole thing happen. So I brought in a magic device of Zaryth's making, and, uh… destroyed the artifact. Along with the rest of the ruin, unfortunately." Thorald chuckled under his breath. He was going to just leave out the part where he'd nearly died. They didn't need that right then. "When I say it all like this, it sounds terribly grand. But Zaryth and I have been doing our duty, nothing more. Blackreach is always more extreme."

"Courtesy of the Dragonborn, mainly," Zaryth said. "While he was in there, a few of the red draugr came for me outside, but I was surrounded by his squadmates. It went fine."

Olfina gestured between the two of them vaguely. "Is… is this what you do now, then? Partaking in the Dragonborn's sort of crazy heroism?"

"And among those extraordinary things, a Gray-Mane ended up with a Telvanni mage," Thorald nodded, more than a little mirthfully.

"Well, I'm certainly glad you're here with us now," his mother said. "I hope you can stay for a while. I've been so eager to learn about you, Zaryth."

"I can come around again later," Zaryth nodded.

Thorald said, "I can't. Well, not very much, at least. I'm not free to talk about specifics here, but let's just say the Black Machine's work isn't quite done."

Avulstein asked, "Cyrodiil?"

"I can't confirm or deny that," Thorald replied breezily. In other words, yes, Cyrodiil. But he really wasn't supposed to share that, even if it was the obvious next move. It was just the standard policy for Blackreach.

Olfina said, "I've heard a lot of things about the Dragonborn. You know there's a sort of… a sort of cult for him, now? In a few places? Ever since the Oblivion Purge. I've heard a few rumors about him being a Tenth Divine. Like Talos, but better."

Now it was Thorald's turn to snort. "No, I did _not_ know that. Anyway, he can't be a Divine, he's still in Tamriel. I wonder if he'll come along and tell them to stop doing that."

There was another brief pause in the conversation. This all just reminded Thorald of what legacy Iseus had left behind. The man might have still been in Tamriel, but his echoes throughout the world spoke for him.

If it weren't for Iseus, Thorald might have still been in Northwatch Keep. The Stormcloak Rebellion might have still been tearing Skyrim apart. This whole world would have been darker without him. And yet barely anyone seemed to know anything about who he was.

Not that Thorald did, himself. He just knew now what happened when a person became known as a hero. They stopped being a person, and started being a symbol. When that happened, it could become a challenge to remember who the person was.

He wasn't having much of that challenge today.

Avulstein said, "Hey. I know it's not that late on in the day, but how would everyone like some drinks? Just to celebrate the occasion?"

"That would be splendid, thank you," Zaryth smiled. "Whatever you'd like to serve. I'm fine for it all."

"You're allowed to have preferences," Thorald murmured to her.

She replied at the same volume, "Well, yes, but…"

"Maybe some ale," Thorald spoke up, more audibly. "Mead might be a little overbearing for our present company."

Olfina laughed out loud. "Too strong?"

"Too sweet," Zaryth said.

Thorald would've been fine with the mead, himself. After all, he was still wearing the necklace his father had made for him. The one Farengar had enchanted to ward off poison. It was amusing how that worked for strong drink as well.

Avulstein and Olfina both got up and headed off for the cupboards. While they did, Fralia asked, "What sort of drink do you like, Zaryth? I'm not sure we'd have it, but I would like to know, all the same."

"Uh…" Zaryth scratched at the back of her head. "Flin, maybe? It's been a long time since I had it. Ale works fine, in any case."

Fralia raised her eyebrows. "Flin? An Imperial drink, isn't that?"

The Dunmer nodded. "That's right. But before the Red Year, Morrowind was an Imperial province. I was around back then." She glanced at Thorald. "I may have a, uh… a couple hundred years or so of age on Thorald here. It hasn't lessened his ability to teach me things about the world, in any case."

"Oh, if only we Nords aged so gracefully," Fralia laughed quietly. She was one to talk. Nearing eighty years of age, and she carried herself with the grace of someone who was half that.

A moment later, Avulstein returned with a whole tray full of metal tankards, and stepped around the hearth to let everyone take one. Thorald waited until everyone was served—and until Avulstein and Olfina had sat back down themselves—before taking his first sip.

This ale was perfect. Golden brown, nicely frothy, deep in flavor—rather cool, as well, which was welcome. But it tasted like more than that. Thorald didn't quite know how to describe it. It just tasted like… like home.

He held up his tankard and grinned. "Here's to the comfort of home."

"I'll drink to that," Avulstein grinned back.

Oh, today was a good day.

Thorald took a moment to look down at his drink. At the foam swirling around the edges, at the deep amber color within. So much had happened to make this moment possible, with him sitting here in the company of the ones he loved. So much work, so much sacrifice, to create this future instead of a worse one.

And that work was unfolding all the time. He was right in the middle of it himself. Zaryth was, too, right alongside him in Blackreach. They'd done miraculous things together. Things that, when Thorald tried to retell now, just sounded like a distant and exaggerated myth. That myth was his reality now.

But he could remember a time when he hadn't known Blackreach had even existed. When the most important thing in his life was which of his friends he'd go hunting with, and whether he'd be able to pick up anyone in the tavern that night. That had been his life, once.

Then it had all fallen away. His old life might as well have belonged to another person. And now… now, he was sitting here, enjoying this tankard of ale, at the end of one long journey, and the beginning of another.

This world of his always kept changing. If he'd learned anything over the past year, it had been that nothing could ever counted on to stay the same. Not even his home, and not even himself. There was so much to take part in. And he didn't want to miss a second of it. This was his life, and he was lucky to be living it.

But to be honest? After all that had happened, after all he'd done, this kind of change had become the new way of life. Thorald had lost track of the days long ago.

 **The End**


End file.
